True Love Quests
by Keesha
Summary: The Queen is pregnant with the heir to France and King Louis will do anything for his beloved, or to be precise will order the four musketeers to do whatever he commands in the name of 'true love'.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** This_ _is my annual holiday related story, or in this case series of tales. As always, no infringement intended. Kudos to Mountain Cat my beta who had more stuff sent to her to fix over the busy holiday season. She's a gem. And as always love reviews. Like mini holiday presents each day when I open my email._

 _WARNING – I have decided to add a cautionary note to this series. Some of the chapters will address hunting animals both for sport and food, common occurrences in the 17_ _th_ _century France. If you prefer not to read stories containing these scenarios, skip this story._

 **TLQ 1**

"A cold wind is going to come around the corner and freeze that look on your face," Aramis teased his retreating friend, though apparently, it didn't go over well as it only caused Athos to deepen his scowl. Deciding to try another tactic, the marksman cajoled, "It's for your Queen."

Athos stopped, turned, and glared even harder at his friend. "My job is to protect her Majesty from enemies foreign and domestic. Not hunt for her dinner!"

A fake look of shock appeared on Aramis' face and his voice rose in mock-horror. "Sacrilegious! She is in a delicate condition and must be treated accordingly. In her blessed womb is the heir of France. It is our sacred duty to do whatever is required to ensure her well-being.

Shaking his head, Athos peered down at the four large poodles, two black, two white, sitting by his feet. He swore the clowns of the dog-world were grinning at him, enjoying his whole discomfort with this particular assignment. They had borrowed the canines from the kennel-master to help beat the fields, thereby causing the birds to rise so they could be shot. Though Athos knew poodles were typically used for hunting water fowl, the intelligent, adaptable animals were performing well at this task too. The problem was, so far, there had been nothing to flush out of the grassy fields through which the Musketeers roamed; well almost nothing. The jovial poodles had managed to flush out some animals, just not winged-ones. To some degree, Athos thought the fun-loving canines were doing it on purpose.

The poodle pack had flushed out a skunk, which had taken serious exception to being disturbed, though luckily both the two men and the four dogs avoided being sprayed. Then there was the fox, hiding in an empty log. The four, long-legged purebreds barked up a storm and chased the red fox into the woods, their yapping gradually fading away. The poodles were gone so long the Musketeers began to worry if they would ever return and if not, how the kennel-master would take the fact they had lost his prize possessions. While they were gone, somehow it became Athos' job to slog through the field trying to flush out the non-existence birds, which only served to further degrade his already foul mood.

Finally, the poodle pack returned, innocently looking as if they had never deserted the ship. They came to a screeching halt right in front of the two Musketeers, simultaneously dropped onto their partially shaved, curly haunches and solemnly looked up at the men as if awaiting instruction. However, the twinkle in their dark brown eyes showed they were just messing with Aramis' and Athos' minds.

For their next trick, the poodles flushed out a boar. Aramis and Athos were on foot, and there was a moment or two of concern when the unhappy boar seemed bent on taking out his ire on them. But the poodles, who could be goof-balls, suddenly turned serious and they quickly and furiously drove the boar away from the Musketeers. When the boar was safely gone, the four dogs came running back to circle the legs of the Musketeers and elicit pats for a job well done.

An unamused Athos watched as Aramis scolded the canine crew for not taking this mission seriously. As if the dogs actually absorbed the lecture, the poodles abruptly got serious and set about to do their job. Over the space of the next few hours, there were a number of winged creatures driven skyward by the poodle pack, though unfortunately none were the right variety. But, it certainly wasn't for lack of trying by the poodles.

When eventually the canines flushed some geese from the reeds by a pond, Athos swiftly raised his musket and took aim at the flying objects. However, Aramis reached over, clapped a hand on his shoulder and stopped him from firing. Highly annoyed, Athos rounded on his friend with the loaded musket and for a moment Aramis wondered just how much his brother loved him because it looked like he was suspiciously close to being on the wrong end of the barrel.

"Why the hell did you do that?" the irate Musketeer growled at his hunting companion. "I had a perfect shot. We could have bagged the damn goose and headed home. In case you haven't noticed, it is getting dark and cold and I have had enough." _Of this wild goose chase, he added in his head._

"Our Queen didn't request a goose," Aramis simply explained as he reached down to scratch the ear of the white poodle who came over to stand by him and await his next command.

"It's a bird; it's close enough," Athos announced, clearly fed up with this mission. Absentmindedly, the swordsman found himself reacting to the long black nose that was nudging his hand, by reaching down and rubbing the head of the black poodle that was practically leaning on his legs. He had had a black poodle, for a while, as a child.

"We're done here," Athos declared as he started to walk towards where they had left their mounts hours ago. His sudden departure caught the poodle unaware and the dog fell over since it had been leaning so hard against Athos' leg. With the dignity that only a poodle can muster after it does something silly, the canine got back on its feet and stately pranced after the retreating man.

"But Athos," Aramis all but whined trailing after him. "You know how poorly the Queen has been feeling of late. The King has been trying all sorts of things to cheer her up. He, Louis, even got down on his knees. And you know what he said to her?"

"No. And I don't care," Athos tossed over his shoulder.

Aramis, of course, ignored him. The King said to her, 'My true love. What can I get for you to make you happy?'."

Athos gave a light snort at that picture. The King didn't bow down to any man, or woman for that matter.

"And," Aramis continued his tale to a disinterested Athos, "the Queen said she fancied a partridge."

Suddenly, fate intervened on cue and two of the poodles suddenly took off into the long, amber waves of grass. Out of the blue, two partridges burst forth from their cover and took to the skies. Immediately, Aramis brought his gun to bear and neatly shot down the first bird. The white poodle still by his side merrily loped off to retrieve the partridge.

Athos wasn't quite as fortunate, for his shot merely clipped the bird, which managed to fly to a nearby tree where it got caught up in the branches. It flapped for a moment before it became deathly still. The black poodle which had been following Athos, ran to the base of the tree and barked up at the bird, as if the Musketeers lacked the ability to figure out where the bird had gone.

The two men marched over to the tree, stood at its base and stared upwards at the dead bird caught in the tree limbs. By this time, the white poodle had retrieved Aramis' partridge and had carefully brought it back to the Musketeer. The marksman took the bird, holding it by its feet. Athos gave one last look the bird in the tree, then turned away and started for the horses. The black poodle was torn between following the Musketeer and barking at the bird in the tree.

"Where are you going?" Aramis questioned the retreating Musketeer.

"Home."

"But the partridge is still in the tree," Aramis declared, stating the obvious as if the poodle's barking wasn't enough of a clue.

Athos stopped, turned and looked at his brother. "So what? You have one. We're good."

Aramis tried to reason with the grouchy Musketeer. "One? One's not enough. They are a rather small bird and her Majesty is eating for two. And what if the King should want some? You know our King doesn't share well."

"Even for his true love?" Athos mumbled under his breath, parodying Aramis' earlier words.

"You must climb that tree and fetch the bird," Aramis declared in a tone that brooked no argument. But Athos wasn't buying into it.

"Send one of the dogs to do it," Athos tossed back, clearly showing no intention of heading anywhere but back to the horses.

"Athos…it's for your Queen," Aramis coaxed. "The Queen you nearly died for at the convent. The Queen you saved from the Cardinal. The Queen who is carrying the heir to France and," his voice dropped to a whisper, "maybe my own flesh and blood."

That caused the swordsman to put on the brakes as he ran a frustrated hand over his wavy brown hair. Damn his brother for bringing that up. How could he refuse a plea such as that?

"I'd do it myself," Aramis avowed, "but my arm is still recovering from that nasty wound a few weeks ago."

When it appeared Athos would not be moved, Aramis sighed deeply and started towards the tree. But as Aramis knew, Athos wouldn't let him risk further injury by climbing the tree, so the grumbling swordsman turned, strode over and brushed past the marksman. "I'll never hear the end of it if you get hurt." Arriving at the base of the tree, Athos stripped off his weapon's belt and shoved it at Aramis. "Hold this."

Aramis took the bundle, holding it in his free hand. The white poodle wasn't very happy with this arrangement as it left no hands free to scratch his head. With the equivalent of a doggie sigh, the poodle wandered back to where the other three canines were sitting, near the tree.

"Great. An audience," Athos muttered as he glanced over and saw the poodles intently gazing at him.

The tree where the partridge was stuck was not overly tall and did have some easily reachable branches for climbing purposes. With a grunt, Athos grabbed a branch, hauled himself upward and began to scale the tree.

Aramis, who had been studying the tree closely, yelled up, "It's a fruit tree. Pear. And there are still a few pears on the branches. Collect them too. I'm sure the Queen would enjoy fresh fruit this late in the year. Highly unusual."

From his perch, where he had wedged himself for a moment to determine how to best reach the elusive partridge, Athos reached over and plucked one of the aforementioned pears and then deliberately threw it at Aramis. His aim was good as the fruit hit the marksman square in the chest, causing the man to grunt and glare up at him. The poodles got up as one and wandered over to examine the new item on the ground by Aramis' feet. Finding the pear uninteresting, the pack sat once more and stared at Athos in the tree.

"Not nice," Aramis wheezed, wishing he had a free hand to rub his aching chest. But if he dropped the swordsman's weapons in the dirt, he knew there would be hell to pay. And he certainly wasn't going to risk the Queen's partridge, so he stood there and suffered in silence. Six more pears came flying at him, one by one, and the marksman did a dance trying to avoid being pommeled, much to the poodles' delight. They jumped up, barked and danced circles around him, their pom-pom tails wagging happily.

When the rain of fruit finally ceased, Aramis hesitantly looked upwards at Athos and sarcastically inquired, "Are you done?"

Athos, who had one last fruit in his hand, considered that question. With a self-satisfied grin, he tucked the last pear in his coat pocket for a later surprise attack.

Grumbling, Aramis slung Athos' weapon's belt over his shoulder and set about picking the fruit up off the ground and stashing them in the various pockets in his own long coat. No matter what Athos' opinion, he still thought this would be a nice surprise for the Queen.

Meanwhile, in the tree, Athos carefully began edging his way out to the area where the bird was stuck, on the outer edges of the tree where the branches were thinner. He had serious doubts about the tree limbs being able to support his weight, so he stretched his body out like a sunning cat trying to keep his weight evenly distributed on some of the sturdier looking branches. His gloved fingers had just touched the tail feathers of the bird when there was an ominous cracking sound and he unexpectedly found himself plummeting towards the ground. It was a quick trip; he barely had time to utter a decent curse word before he smacked into the ground. His head bounced off the dirt and he momentarily blacked out.

Without thinking Aramis dropped everything he was holding on the ground and rushed to his brother's crumpled form along with the poodle pack. Athos woke to human fingers checking the pulse in his neck and long, damp dog noses pressing on other parts of his body, including a pink tongue licking his cheek. With a groan, he attempted to brush aside all the aid he was receiving.

"Take it easy, Athos," Aramis warned as the man struggled to sit up. "Lie here a moment. See if you are seriously hurt anywhere."

Of course, the stubborn swordsman didn't listen. Since he was struggling to sit up and the medic didn't want him to further injure himself, Aramis helped him achieve that goal. But would not let him go any further just yet. The poodles backed off too, some sitting and some lying at Athos' side in the grass.

"How do you feel?" Aramis asked the dazed musketeer once again.

"Like I fell out of a tree." Suddenly, in a panic, Athos began scanning the ground about him muttering under his breath. "God damn it, where is it!"

The black poodle, which had rather attached himself to Athos on this trip, stood, moved across the grass, picked something up and pranced, in that way only poodles can, proudly back to Athos. When he reached the Musketeer, the canine solemnly offered up the prize of the partridge. Gingerly, because he did ache all over, Athos took the bird from the dog and then handed it over to Aramis. "Hate to think after all of this that the damn bird was still up there."

"I'm sure our Queen will lavish high praise upon you for your worthy efforts in retrieving this noble partridge for her table," Aramis swore with a twinkle in his eyes, but a grave look on his face. Unexpectedly, the marksman found a hand clutching his collar, twisting it rather tightly. A set of very serious green eyes bore into his with a fierce intensity.

"We'll not speak of this at all," Athos warned in voice that sent shivers down Aramis' spine. "Not to anyone." Athos' elbow unintendedly brushed his abdomen, causing him to wince, release Aramis' coat, and moan in pain.

"What?" Aramis asked with somber concern. "Your ribs? Did you break them when you fell?"

Athos was in such agony, he didn't fuss when Aramis began to unbutton his doublet and lift his shirt. The swordsman concentrated on taking shallow breaths to ease the waves of pain washing over his body, while Aramis examined him. The medic felt a wetness on his exploring fingers and grew concerned as he desperately searched for the bleeding wound.

Looking at his hand, it suddenly dawned on the medic the sticky wetness on his fingers was not red and upon closer examination smelled fruity. He took a closer look at Athos' abdomen and noticed a bruised area starting to appear in a very distinctive shape. Rocking back on his heels, Aramis burst out laughing.

Struggling to see what was making Aramis laugh uncharacteristically at his pain, Athos followed the marksman's gaze to the bruise forming just below his left ribcage. The string of curses he let loose was worthy of a longshoreman as he glared at the pear shaped purple mark forming on his skin. He had forgotten about the fruit he had stashed in his pocket. The poodles, excited by the goings-on, started sticking their cold wet noses on Athos' exposed skin again.

"See Athos. That is God's way of punishing you for throwing pears at me and disrespecting the wishes of your Queen," Aramis said between bouts of laughter. "You're never going to live this down. Wait until Porthos and d'Artagnan see that bruise."

Yanking his shirt down, Athos stated, "They will never see it and if you tell them…"

Aramis held up a hand to cutoff Athos' threat. "I won't tell, but you know they will find out."

After a few minutes more of rest, Aramis helped Athos to his feet. They gathered the partridges, pears, weapons, and dogs and rode home. At the kennel, Athos gave a final rub under the chin to the black poodle that had taken a fancy to him, before they delivered the partridges and pears to the King and Queen.

And of course, the other two Musketeers did find out, and they nearly died of laugher when they learned that Athos got his wound in service of his Queen, getting a partridge out of a pear tree. Athos suffered through his brother's mirth with as much dignity as he could manage along with a copious amount of wine. After his third bottle, somehow even he was beginning to find the incident mildly amusing. A partridge in a pear tree, indeed. What he did for Queen and Country.


	2. Chapter 2

**TLQ 2**

The four Musketeers were sitting in the fire-lit dimness of the mess hall, wolfing down the meal that Serge had graciously left for their late return. Unbeknownst to Aramis and Athos, the same day they had been partridge hunting, their other two brothers had also been serving their Queen.

Porthos cleaned the last of the stew's gravy from his bowl with a chunk of slightly stale bread. When he was done, he was still hungry so he eagerly gazed about the table only to discover that sadly there was no more food left. With a low growl, he reached over and smacked d'Artagnan on the side of his head, causing the man's straight hair to be flung across his eyes. The spoonful of stew the Gascon had been lifting to his mouth tipped and dribbled down his doublet.

"What was that for?" an indignant d'Artagnan demanded of the streetfighter who was definitely annoyed for some reason.

"I'm still hungry," Porthos unhappily declared as he sat hunched over in his chair as if his belly was aching from starvation, even though he had just polished off a large bowl of stew and half a loaf of bread.

Aramis looked up from his own stew, then over at Athos who was sipping from the inevitable glass of wine in his hand. The swordsman quirked an eyebrow, but didn't verbally weigh in on what was transpiring.

"And how is your hunger my fault?" d'Artagnan demanded as he watched a drop of gravy run down his jacket onto his pants.

"Because you had to talk to Constance." After making that less then enlightening statement, Porthos folded his arms over his chest and sulked.

Athos glanced over at Aramis to see if there had been something he missed, but the marksman looked as confused as he. With his free hand, Athos pushed his barely touched bowl of stew in front of Porthos. With a slight tilt of his head, he silently offered the leftovers to the streetfighter, who after sending another daggered glare at d'Artagnan, grunted a thanks to Athos and accepted the offering. Athos drained his glass and refilled it, as if in replacement for his stew.

Aramis' curiosity was now totally stoked. "So, d'Artagnan. Exactly what did you do to irritate our brother?"

The Gascon, who had gone back to devouring his own stew, shrugged. "No clue," he said around a mouthful of food.

Three sets of eyes rotated to stare at the only man in the room with the answer, and he was totally engrossed in consuming Athos' stew.

"Porthos, would you care to explain what our pup has done now?" Aramis politely asked his famished brother.

"You assume I did something wrong?" d'Artagnan groused, leaning back in his chair having completed his meal. "Maybe he's just crazy."

Two sets of eyes remained fixed on Porthos, though one set, d'Artagnan's, threw a quick indignant glare at Aramis before focusing back on the streetfighter who had just finished Athos' dinner.

Porthos' eyes roamed the mess hall in search of more food, but Serge had not left anything else out. With a dissatisfied grunt, he decided to answer Aramis' question.

"He had to stop and talk to the love of his life, delaying us from leaving the palace, and thereby allowing the King to stumble upon us and give us a stupid mission." Porthos glowered at d'Artagnan, who was wondering if it might be a good idea to slide his chair a few feet further away.

"What did the King ask of you?" Aramis inquired as he reached over and tapped Porthos on the hand to get the streetfighter to focus back on him. He and Athos had been gone all day. Athos' contribution to the conversation was to refill Porthos' wine glass and nudge it closer to the larger man's hand.

With an appreciative nod, Porthos picked up the glass and took a large gulp before resuming his tale. "You know the King is on this devotion kick because the Queen is pregnant."

"We are somewhat… aware… of his Majesty's latest passion," Athos remarked drily as the fingers of his left hand absentmindedly brushed the bruise on his abdomen.

Porthos grinned at Athos. "Yeah, Aramis told us about your little adventure with a partridge in a pear tree."

If looks could kill, Aramis would have been toast based on the glare Athos shot at him.

"How could they know already! We just got back from the Palace! And I seem to recall, we had agreed NOT to discuss that," Athos growled in that tone of voice that he used just before he dispatched an enemy to hell.

"It must have slipped out," Aramis replied in a tone that was anything but apologetic. Athos comment was to drain his glass and refill it.

"So we had just been released from a fun morning of standing guard while the King listened to the complaints from the minor, toady nobility. You know the mood that leaves him in."

His brothers nodded their heads somberly. The King was never at his best after one of those sessions. The petty issues of the lesser nobles bored the King, though being a good ruler he periodically held court with them as was his duty.

"So, I grab the pup by his arm the minute we were released and high-tailed-it towards the exit, before we could get sucked into some other assignment. Then _lover boy_ here sees Constance and simply must stop to talk to her in the hallway. And sure enough, while he is being lovey-dovey with her, along comes the King who sees the happy couple. The King comes up to their sides, remarks on how ecstatic they look and then launches into a spiel on how wonderful true love is."

Realizing where this was headed, Athos groaned and shook his head. This was going to be another one of the King's true love quests. "Another true love quest," he muttered.

Porthos continued on with his narrative. "The King decided, in honor of his lovely, pregnant Queen, that he wanted to surprise her with something to show his undying devotion. Nice piece of jewelry? Nope. A new dress? Nope. He decides on a pair of turtle doves. He was told that they mate for life and that seemed incredibly romantic to our Majesty."

"Stupid, if you ask me," Athos mumbled under his breath as he drained his glass and refilled it. Aramis reached across the table and took the wine bottle away from Athos who, of course, did not appreciate the gesture.

"I think you have had enough," Aramis lightly scolded Athos before turning to Porthos and encouraging him to continue.

"So of course, he demands the pup and I go catch a pair of turtle doves for him to present to the Queen."

"I don't see why you are complaining," Aramis interrupted. "Athos and I spent the day partridge hunting."

"Yeah, but that's the key difference. You got to kill your birds, we had to capture ours alive. Two of the damn things," Porthos complained before he took another gulp from his wine glass.

"Did you take the dogs?" Athos asked as he leaned forward and snagged the wine bottle from where Aramis had placed it. Ignoring the frowning medic, the swordsman filled Porthos' glass and then took a swig directly from the bottle. Giving a sideways glance at Aramis he said, "I have a feeling this is a long story." Aramis didn't say anything as he yanked the bottle back to the far side of the table.

"Dogs? For what?"

Porthos, who was raised in the Court of Miracles, had never been exposed to the sport of hunting until he became a Musketeer. And then it had not been as a participant but a guard. Athos, who had been raised as a Comte, had led a life far different where there was time for things other than pure survival.

"Besides," Porthos added, thinking about using dogs, "wouldn't they kill the birds? We needed them alive."

"The dogs are trained to flush out the game and retrieve the fowl after they are shot. Good dogs have amazingly soft mouths. They don't even leave teeth marks on a bird," Athos offered by way of instruction.

"Guess you had dogs growing up," Porthos said, which immediately caused Athos to tension and shift in his chair.

Aramis, knowing an Athos' avoidance technique when he saw it, caught d'Artagnan's eye and shook his head to get him not to ask a follow-on question about Athos' dogs growing up. He had a feeling it would cause the swordsman to get up and leave.

The Gascon got the message and picked up the story where Porthos had left off. "While we had no dogs to help, the King graciously supplied nets on long poles and a lot of verbal… how shall I put this…"

"Useless nonsense it was…" Porthos cut in.

D'Artagnan gave a small nod to show he agreed, even though he finished his sentence with, "…instruction on how to best catch turtle doves." After a pause, he added, "Oh yes and a cage."

"With a damn defective latch." Porthos took another large gulp from his wine glass. "Cost us our first pair of turtle doves."

"One should always check one's equipment before use," Aramis breezily stated. "Though," he tacked on after seeing the storm clouds growing in Porthos' brown eyes, "it wasn't like this was a real mission, like going after bandits or something where one would be sure to check out the equipment first. This was more like an…ah…outing. And of course, no one checks his equipment before going on, say, a, ah, picnic."

Athos, who was a little mellowed by the wine and also piqued that Aramis kept taking away his wine bottle, factually stated, "I do. Always check my equipment."

"You would," Aramis shot back and the two men glared at each other for a moment.

D'Artagnan, once again acting the host of the party, broke in to keep things moving along. "So here we are, running around the King's gardens, chasing after birds, with white nets on long poles."

A chuckling Aramis declared, "That must have been quite a sight. I'm sure all who saw you were inspired by your devotion to your King and Country, carrying out whatever task required without embarrassment or complaint."

From under the unruly hair, which was partially hanging over his eyes, Athos prophesied, "You know that is going to come back and bite you in the ass."

"What do you know," Aramis declared in a displeased tone. "You're half-drunk."

"And you're tempting fate, my dear brother," Athos smugly replied. The swordsman made a play for and successfully got his hands around the wine bottle again and refilled his glass before Aramis could stop him. Raising his glass, he gave his brother a mocking half-salute.

Before things got out of hand between Aramis and Athos, d'Artagnan picked up the storyline. "So, as I was saying, we were running about the Palace gardens, trying to catch these birds. It was trickier than you might think. Even though on any given day there seems to be a lot of these birds hanging about, trying to scoop them up in a net, like they were fish, was very hard."

"D'Artagnan did manage to snag the head of a statue in his net… a stationary statue," Porthos gleefully pointed out.

"I told you," d'Artagnan rebutted, turning on Porthos, "that there was a bird on the head of that statue."

"Ah-huh," Porthos replied as he rolled his eyes. "'Course there was."

"Well you must have eventually accomplished your task, because you are here. I can't imagine the King would let you leave until he had his two turtle doves."

"Oh I caught a pair," Porthos remarked. "A really nice pair. A pair in true love."

"How could you tell?" Athos, despite himself, asked out of curiosity.

"So I catch the first one in my net and carefully place it in the cage his Majesty gave us. I set it on the ground to go hunting again. A few seconds later, this second dove comes up and lands by the cage and starts squawking up a storm. None of that nice sort of purring noise doves usually make. This was like a blood curtailing scream."

"Because you had separated the bird from his true love. How romantic," Aramis declared with a heart-felt sigh.

Athos shook his head and applied himself to his glass of wine once more. Birds, they were talking about, true love and birds.

"Next thing I know," Porthos stated, "the dove outside the cage starts pecking on the cage's latch and somehow springs it. Five seconds later and the lovebirds are flying away into the sunset and I'm left with squat."

"And you didn't notice the jailbirds escaping?" Aramis inquired of the Gascon who suddenly seemed to get a bit squirmy.

"Well, actually, no, because…"

In a mirror move to what he had done at the beginning of this tale, Porthos reached out and whacked d'Artagnan in the side of the head again. "No, he was too busy flirting with Constance, who had come out to see how things were going."

Turning slightly red, d'Artagnan admitted he might had been a little bit distracted. "But to make it up I did catch the next pair."

"Had too. I refused," Porthos stated most adamantly. "And I'm still mad at you because it took twice as long, we got back here late, and there is no more food!" The conversation had gone full circle, back to where they had started.

"I'm sure, if we are quiet and don't make a mess, we can find something more to eat in Serge's kitchen," d'Artagnan helpfully suggested.

"That is the first smart thing you have said all night," Porthos declared, warming to the idea. He stood and d'Artagnan rose too, and they headed across the mess hall to Serge's kitchen.

Aramis gave a worried glance over at Athos. "I'm right in thinking that what they are doing, entering Serge's domain, is a bad idea."

Athos drained his glass, stood and peered down at the remaining Musketeer sitting at the table. "I'm going to bed."

"You're not going to help me keep them out of trouble?" Aramis pleaded, his brown eyes beseeching Athos to reconsider.

"As I am, half-drunk I believe you said, I don't see how I could be of any use. No, it is best I take my fumbling self-back to my quarters where I won't be in the way." The tone of Athos' voice and the look on his face made him appear to be as pious as a choir boy.

"Even fully drunk I have seen you fight off handfuls of bandits, lie to Treville and appear saner than most non-drunk men."

Athos only gave his brother a small smirk before he turned away to head to his quarters.

A crash, like that of a metal pot being knocked off a shelf, echoed through the mess hall and caused Athos to flinch, but didn't halt his progress towards the outside door.

He knew it really didn't matter if he were in the kitchen with the rest of his brothers, or home asleep in bed. Their 'all for one' motto would have him in hot water with them, come morning, just the same. And since he was tired, and a bit drunk, he decided he'd rather sleep. Let Aramis chase after their wayward brothers tonight. Serve him right for telling them about his pear-shaped bruise.

True love indeed, Athos thought as he crossed the courtyard and headed up the stairs to his room. What a stupid concept. He wondered how many more of these 'true love quests' the King would send them on. Not many, he hoped. King and Country, pregnant Queen or not, this was not what he signed up to do as a Musketeer.


	3. Chapter 3

**TLQ 3**

"And don't think I'm not gonna tell the Captain what you done," Serge promised as he waved his long wooden stirring spoon about in irritation. D'Artagnan edged a bit further away from the old cook, having already been smacked with the heavy spoon once and it had really stung.

"Now Serge," Porthos begged, all smiles and graciousness. "Do you really think we need to bother the Captain with this? We can work it out amongst us. Right?"

Athos, who was sitting at the far end of the table, caught the edge of a shadow sliding across the wooden tabletop. A stealthy glance upwards showed that Captain Treville was standing on his porch, eavesdropping. Damn, the swordsman thought. Their Captain seemed to have the ability to know when his four best Musketeers had done something stupid and gotten themselves in hot water, again.

And this, Athos thought glumly, was where the 'all for one' came into play. The swordsman sighed as he dropped his eyes back to the table top in front of him. Technically, he hadn't done anything this time, but he knew he'd be punished along with the rest of his brothers. Treville was under this misconception that they, and in particular he, Athos, should keep each other out of trouble. But, sorry to say, in reality that rarely happened. Usually, group participation simply made matters worse. More fun, more exciting, but definitely not less disastrous.

Athos debated about letting his brothers know they were under the Captain's scrutiny, then he thought better of it. First of all, it would be a good lesson for d'Artagnan to realize that all actions have consequences, even the ones in a kitchen. And two, his present headache had been caused by his brothers last night and it was just annoying enough that he wanted some bit of retribution; this would do nicely.

"Serge. Be reasonable. You know how much I love food, especially yours. This was an accident and it only was one pot of soup." Porthos pointed out in what he felt was a reasonable manner.

"Only one pot of soup! Only one pot of soup!" The old cook was practically screeching and d'Artagnan motioned for him to lower his voice. "That pot of soup was for the Queen!"

That caught all the musketeers by surprise, except for the Captain who was well aware of what was going on in his garrison.

"You are making soup for the Queen?" d'Artagnan demanded, then softened his tone adding, "I mean you are a wonderful cook, but doesn't she have her own chefs at the Palace?"

"It just so happens her Majesty likes my chicken soup better than those fancy chefs at the castle. Our Queen knows real food when she tastes it," Serge replied haughtily, his body language showing he was extremely proud of the recognition.

"And how exactly did the Queen even come to taste your chicken soup?" d'Artagnan questioned, unable to come up with a reasonable scenario that had Serge cooking at the Palace or the Queen eating at the garrison.

Athos' eyes narrowed as he watched Aramis become fidgety, a sure sign he was involved somehow in the Queen and chicken soup paradox. Still in retribution mode, he drolly pointed out, "Aramis seems to know the answer to that question."

"You couldn't resist could you," Aramis accused his friend, who merely shrugged it off without any sign of guilt.

"Learn not to fidget and I won't call you out," Athos declared as he propped his chin up with one hand.

"I don't fidget!"

"Yeah, you do," Porthos piped up, taking Athos' side. "You're gonna get us killed some day when you give us away with your squirming."

Before his two brothers could launch into a prolonged debate, d'Artagnan pleaded for an answer, "Aramis, please, how did the Queen taste Serge's chicken soup?"

After rubbing a hand over his beard, Aramis sighed and related the story. "Remember last winter when I got that terrible cold?"

They all nodded their heads. Aramis had been miserable and thereby made everyone around him equally so. "If you recall, when I was recovering, we got assigned to attend that hunt with both the King and Queen. On that cold day."

"Yeh, it was unusual. Queen doesn't normally come along. Get the feelin' she isn't a fan of huntin'," Porthos affirmed, recalling the curious event.

"True. Our Queen doesn't have a taste for killing. She only went I think to please the King. He'd been rather bored that winter," Aramis surmised, being rather kind in his remembrance. The King had been a down-right terror towards the end of the winter season. Tired of being cooped up inside, the King had invented all sorts of novel ways to amuse himself, some of which had kept the palace staff and the Musketeers on their toes.

"Serge," Aramis continued, "knowing I was still under the weather, thoughtfully packed me a flask of his chicken soup to take on the hunt. His chicken soup, I swear, has restorative properties."

"It does," the old cook confirmed eagerly. "It's an old recipe from my gammy."

"It was a chilly day," Aramis said picking up his tale again, "and I stopped to take a fortifying sip of soup."

"I would have preferred brandy," Athos mumbled to no one in particular.

"And the next thing I know the Queen rides up alongside and demands to know what I am drinking. Well she is intrigued when I tell her chicken soup and asks to try it. I, of course, can't deny our fair Queen, so I lend her the flask. She was delighted. And that is how she came to taste Serge's chicken soup."

"Only you Aramis," Porthos said with a huge grin as he clapped a friendly hand on the marksman's shoulder.

Serge, who had been momentarily forgotten during these reminiscences, limped over to where Porthos sat and started poking him in the chest with his wooden spoon "Do you have any idea how long it takes to make a good pot of chicken soup. Do you?" The spoon made a few more strikes on the streetfighter. "A very long time. First you have to get the right chicken, not too young with no taste, but also not too old and tough…"

"Like you," d'Artagnan muttered under his breath.

Athos, upon hearing the cheeky comment struggled hard not to quirk the corner of his lips.

Luckily, Serge didn't hear the Gascon's disrespectful comment; the old cook was too busy rattling off how to make chicken soup. But Porthos on the bench, and Treville, who had quietly moved to stand behind the Musketeers' backs did hear the snarky comment. Porthos gave the lad a smack on the arm as a reprimand; Treville waited to exact his punishment.

"…and after you get every last pin feather off the birds you take sharp cleaver, chop off their heads, and hang them by their feet until they bleed dry. Then you quarter them up…"

Aramis leaned sideways, closer to Porthos, declaring, "Who knew soup making was so violent and gruesome."

"…then you have to scrape and chop the carrots, onions, and celery and add them to the pot…"

Porthos snorted softly at his friend. "You know nothing about cooking. I've eaten your so-called attempts."

"Athos is worse."

"Not by much."

Aramis pulled a hurt face and was about to dispute the claim when Athos warned in a low voice, "Gentlemen." All this prattle was making his head ache even more and he knew it would only get worse when Treville decided to step into the ring.

"… and then you have to find the right spices, grind them up, add them to the simmering broth . It's all about the spices it is…"

D'Artagnan, who for some reason was listening to Serge as if he were reciting the secrets of the universe, suddenly got an itchy feeling between his shoulder blades. He frowned slightly, unable to put his finger on what was spooking him. Glancing over at his mentor, he couldn't see if the man was uneasy because Athos' eyes were shaded by the brim of his hat. Next he looked over at Aramis and Porthos who were still trading soft commentary and saw what he had sensed. Treville was impassively watching them all. Mystery solved, though not in a good way.

"Captain," d'Artagnan drawled, acknowledging his presence. The Gascon could tell by the way two of his brothers twitched, they had not been aware of their superior's presence. The third, however, didn't flinch at all.

"A little warning would have been nice," d'Artagnan stated accusingly. The brim of the hat raised just enough so d'Artagnan could see the hooded eyes underneath, which remained impassive.

"Serge, is there a problem?" the Captain inquired, causing the cook finally to halt in his recitation of how to make chicken soup.

"Captain. Your Musketeers snuck into my kitchen and ruined my soup for the Queen!" the old warrior turned cook declared. "They're lucky me and my musket didn't catch'em sneaking about. We'd have taught them a thing or two."

"Indeed," the Captain said neutrality as he turned to his Musketeers. "Care to explain?" It was very clear by his tone and posture that was an order, not a suggestion.

Earnestly, the farm boy plunged in. 'It was an accident, Captain. I swear it. Porthos and I were hungry after hunting doves all day so we went into Serge's kitchen looking for a snack."

"Snack! Snack! I left you men a huge dinner for when you returned, yet you were still hungry? These two, Captain," the cook's crooked finger pointed at d'Artagnan and Porthos. "They are impossible to feed. The garrison is gonna go broke feeding those two. And that one there consumes more wine then the three of them put together."

"I buy my own wine…mostly," Athos defended himself quietly.

"How did you two manage to ruin the soup?" the Captain asked curiously.

"It was dark in there…"

"Cause you weren't supposed to be in there!" Serge interrupted d'Artagnan.

"…and l bumped into the stove, which to my surprise was hot…"

"Of course, it was, you dolt! If you want good stock, you have to simmer the carcasses for a very long time!"

"… I burnt my palm," d'Artagnan held up his hand to show the burn mark, "and accidentally knocked the tin of black pepper off the shelf and into the pot."

"Ruining my soup," Serge moved towards d'Artagnan, shaking his spoon once more, but the Captain put a restraining hand on the cook.

Aramis, ever the medic, captured d'Artagnan's wrist so he could examine the wound on the boy's palm. "I have some salve you should put on this," he instructed as he released d'Artagnan's hand.

It grew quiet and all eyes fixed themselves upon the Captain. "The King will not be pleased if we fail to deliver the...mission." Somehow, the Captain couldn't bring himself to say the word soup, for it did feel a little strange; Musketeers making soup for the Queen. "You know our King has been especially… devoted… since the Queen is carrying the royal heir."

Aramis and Athos exchanged a quick glance before turning their attentions back to their leader.

"So what will it take to make a new pot of your restorative soup, Serge?" Treville asked of the old cook.

"Time, more ingredients, and those two far away from my kitchen!" he declared with a wag of his large wooden spoon.

Angling his body to face the Inseparables, he swept each of them with his blue eyes, though he couldn't quite see Athos' eyes, still hidden under his brown hat. "You four shall go to the market and procure whatever Serge needs to redo the soup. Then you will help prepare it." Both the four Musketeers and the cook looked dubious about the wisdom of that last piece.

"Shopping? For food?" Aramis complained. "I really don't like shopping for food. Clothes, horses, pretty women, but food?" The look on his Captain's face clearly stated he wasn't amused so the marksman added sincerely, "Anything for the Queen."

Athos raised his head to address his Captain. "I have to go? I had nothing to do with their exploits in the kitchen."

"You should have stopped them," the Captain declared, glaring back at his Lieutenant.

"Herding cats," Athos mumbled as he dropped his head once more.

"Serge, go make a list and give it to them. And I expect you four to be prompt in this task. Do I make myself clear?" After he got his four head nods, he said, "Gentlemen," before ascending the stairs to his office.

The four men glumly sat around the table waiting for Serge to return. "I hate shopping," Porthos sighed as he stared out the garrison's gate. "It makes me hungry."

"Seems to me, that is how this whole thing started," Athos muttered sarcastically, as he rested his head on his forearms on the table, while wishing there was a bottle of wine nearby. Hair of the dog. The busy, crowded market wasn't going to do a thing for his headache other than increase its intensity.

Eventually, Serge came outside with his list of ingredients and headed over to the table where the four Musketeers were still sulking. D'Artagnan went to take the paper, but the old cook held it out of reach, insisting he needed to go over each and every item with them before they could leave to go to the market.

"And see to it they are Poule de Houdan hens, farm boy. I don't expect them to know, but you better. Three French hens. None of them imports." The old cook tapped his finger three times on the paper. "Houdan hens."

"I got it, Serge. I got it," d'Artagnan vowed with a slightly exasperated tone. Two of his brothers saw no reason to hide their mirthful smirks at the lad's annoyance and the third seemed disinterested as usual.

Finally, when the old cook was satisfied that they properly understood the list, he set them free, admonishing them to return quickly since it took a long time to make proper soup. The four men rose and walked out the garrison's gate towards one of the main markets in Paris. It was near midday and the place was bustling with servants and wives shopping for their evening meal. Over three-quarters of the patrons were women and the four soldiers, with all their weapons, looked a tad out of place.

"We should spilt up, divide and conquer. Get done quicker," Porthos suggested, as he reached over and grabbed Aramis by the arm to stop him from following after a cute maiden with a basket of bread. "Sooner we are done here the better."

"I don't think that is a good idea," d'Artagnan stated, even though he couldn't wait for this to be over. "If we don't bring back the right ingredients, Serge will take it out on me. And personally, I like eating."

Athos reached over and snatched the list from the Gascon's hand and quickly skimmed it. "Fine. Let's get moving."

Spying one of the items on the list, Athos marched over to the vendor's cart, picked up the bunch of carrots on the top of the pile, then reached into his purse to hand over a coin. Unexpectedly, he felt a hand on his wrist stopping him from handing over the payment to the eagerly awaiting woman.

"You're doing it wrong," d'Artagnan informed him, which caused Athos to shake his head in disbelief.

"Exactly how am I doing this wrong? I have carrots in my hand and I am paying the lady."

"You didn't examine them." The farmer reached over and took the produce from the swordsman's grip.

Athos narrowed his eyes and his tone took on a sharp edge. "They're carrots."

"Look, I get it. You grew up in a privileged household and never had to deal with mundane things such as buying food, or growing it. So let me, teach you, for a change."

Giving a little wave of his hand, before folding his arms over his leather-clad chest, he said, "By all means. Instruct."

Ignoring Athos' vaguely sarcastic attitude, d'Artagnan set about showing him how to buy vegetables. The other two Musketeers watched with interest as they weren't exactly sure what Athos had done wrong either.

"First, you examine all the produce, especially the ones in the center of the bunch." He showed them the carrot in the middle of the group that looked like a rabbit had gnawed on it. "Sometime the outside ones look nice, but not the inner ones."

D'Artagnan placed that bunch of carrots back on the cart and rooted through a few more sets until he found one of which he approved.

"Next, you dicker on the price," the farmer explained to his brothers.

"I understand bargaining for horses, weapons, land, furniture, but carrots? Seems like a waste of time," Athos declared, a bit of his heritage bleeding through his persona.

"If you only have limited funds, every penny saved means more food for the table," d'Artagnan explained, though not unkindly for he knew Athos came from a world far different from the rest of them..

Athos nodded his head, looking a bit discomfited by his earlier statement. "Yes, you make a good point."

Carrots purchased and secured in a sack Porthos thought to bring along, the four Musketeers went about shopping for the rest of the items on their list. Finally, they were ready to obtain the last item, the three French hens. D'Artagnan took them all over the market and Aramis swore by the time they were done he'd never eat another chicken again. He never realized that there were so many different types, and none, of course, were the ones that Serge wanted.

Just when they were about to give up and face the wrath of Serge with the wrong type of fowl, d'Artagnan spotted an out of the way stall which had chickens. With a gleeful 'yes', the Gascon rushed over to the chickens and began examining them closely.

"Yes, these certainly look right," d'Artagnan exclaimed as he bent over a little more to examine the chickens running around in a little make-shift enclosure.

"They're chickens. Just like the last 400 we looked at," Aramis griped, swishing a feather away from his sleeve.

"Yes they are chickens, but they are not like the others. These are Poule de Houdan hens." Reaching down, he plucked one up and cradled it against his leather jacket. The black and white speckled chicken, not patricianly pleased with this development in its life, began pecking at the Gason's arm.

"Still looks like a chicken to me," Porthos declared. "And a nasty one at that."

"Look." D'Artagnan tucked the fowl more securely against his chest to free up his left hand. "See the comb here. It is shaped like a butterfly. That is a distinctive feature found on this breed of chicken."

Despite himself, Athos found himself leaning in to take a closer look at the item in question. He never realized chickens had breeds, like dogs and horses, though when he thought about it, it did make sense. In his world, chicken was a food; nothing more, nothing less.

"Here," d'Artagnan thrust the Houdan hen at Porthos, who, after a bit of wrestling, held the bird steady against his own black leather jacket.

"Turn her upside down," d'Artagnan instructed.

Porthos, who had started lightly stroking the mottled feathered head, calming down the bird, shook his head. "Why? She ain't gonna like that."

Aramis gave his brother a strange look. "It's a chicken, Porthos. Who cares what it likes. I'm sure it isn't going to like being made into soup either, but in reality, that's what is going to happen."

"I get it. But we don't have to be cruel up to that point," Porthos shot back, holding the bird a bit tighter against his broad chest.

D'Artagnan smiled up at the larger man who was sympathizing with the plight of the chicken for some reason. He knew his brother had a huge, generous heart. He just didn't realize it extended to chickens. "We can do it this way too. Let me work one of its feet loose so we can see it."

Athos and Aramis exchanged amused glances behind the Gascon's back.

"Stop smirking, gentlemen," d'Artagnan called out over his shoulder, knowing his brothers too well. Carefully, he worked one of the chicken's feet free where they all could see it. "So, what do you see?"

Knowing it was a trick question, but not knowing the trick, Athos went with the obvious. "A chicken foot. Speckled."

"Yes, and how many toes do you see," d'Artagnan coaxed his student towards the right answer.

Athos looked at the foot in question, feeling the beady little eyes of the chicken examining him right back. "Five. There are five toes."

Letting the chicken's foot go, d'Artagnan clapped his hands in delight. "And there you have it."

The other three Musketeers still looked confused, as they alternated their glances between d'Artagnan and the black and white speckled chicken tucked in Porthos' arms.

With a long-suffering sigh, d'Artagnan said, "You have no idea how many toes a normal chicken has, do you."

"I have studied Latin, mathematics, geography, history, etiquette, astronomy, political science, military tactics…" Athos ticked off.

"And I have studied religion," Aramis inserted.

"...And I do have to confess, the subject of the number of toes, on a…normal… chicken never came up," Athos declared in that bored, droll manner that made the people he was speaking to feel rather silly.

"Yes, of course, sorry. My mistake," d'Artagnan said sarcastically, with a little fake bow. "Let's pay for these chickens, shall we, and move on."

After a bit of bargaining, three Houdan French hens, one each, were tucked under the arms of the musketeers except for Aramis, who carried the sack of other ingredients, refusing to have the chicken up against his person. Rather than argue with the unreasonable man, who would wear a chicken feather in his hat if it were spectacular looking, but not hold one against his coat, the Gascon took the last hen and they headed back to the garrison.

Somehow, of course, when they arrived back at the garrison, it seemed like every Musketeer in the regiment was in the courtyard to witness their return.

"Nice chicken you got there d'Artagnan," one Musketeer jeered as they walked towards the kitchen. "Does it have a name? Is it going to warm your bed at night."

"You know, d'Artagnan, a feather pillow _only_ contains the feathers, not the rest of the chicken," another voice rang forth.

"I thought that girlfriend of yours had you hen-pecked. But I see I was wrong. It was a real chicken," a third voice entered the fray.

The Gascon shook his head and scowled. "Why is it there are three of us carrying chickens, yet only one of us is getting harassed."

"Simple," Aramis replied, as if he failed to see why the lad didn't see the logic. "Athos is their Lieutenant and they respect him."

"And they know he can kill them with one hand tied behind his back with either his sword, dagger or glare," Porthos tacked on.

"And Porthos, well everyone is afraid of our mountain man here," Aramis went on to explain.

Porthos gave a little growl to emphasize Aramis' point.

"And myself, had I been carrying one of those things, well they know I could easily shoot them between the eyes from miles away."

Porthos nodded vigorously and used his free hand to mimic shooting a gun.

"But you, well you are just the…new guy."

"The pup," Porthos smirked.

"Athos' protégé, our fourth, but no one onto yourself yet. Without us, you don't exist," Aramis tried to explain in a kindly voice.

"On yer own you are the nut that challenged the best swordsman in the regiment, got thrown in jail, sleeps with another man's wife," Porthos paused a moment. "Well Aramis does that too, but without us you are kind of a mess."

"I feel the love," d'Artagnan groaned as he rolled his eyes. "Let's get these things to Serge and start helping him make the new batch."

Each of the Musketeers let out a small groan at that thought. And the boy was right. The cook set them to scraping and cutting the vegetables, not trusting them to help with his precious chickens.

Sitting on stools around a prep table in the kitchen, each of the Musketeers was prepping a vegetable. Athos, the expert swordsman, had already managed to slice open his forefinger trying to peel a carrot. After having his finger wrapped in a bandage, Athos was relegated to placing the cleaned and chopped vegetables in the empty pot.

Aramis put himself in charge of quality control, making sure every piece of vegetable was perfectly peeled and chopped. He kept reminding them this was for the Queen, and after the fifteenth reminder, Porthos took one of Serge's large, long-handled wooden spoons and rapped Aramis on the shoulder with it. Aramis, immediately grabbed a near-by pot lid and used it as a shield to defend himself.

Since no one was chopping anything, Athos had nothing to do, so he searched the kitchen for the wine that he knew must be present. Finding it, he quickly moved to where it was sitting on a shelf, uncorked a bottle, and took a swig from its green lip. With a small sigh of contentment, he leaned against the shelf and watched his two brothers fence, each now having acquired a lid and spoon with which to defend themselves.

Athos knew the Captain would, once again, blame him for not keeping his brothers under control. Frankly, if he had enough time to finish this bottle of wine, and maybe start a second, he'd stand straight-faced through any lecture the Captain chose to deliver.

D'Artagnan kept his head down and continued to work at the tasks assigned to them by the cook. With any luck, maybe he'd have them all done before Serge came back. Of course, that didn't happen and Serge let out a loud squawk when he walked into his kitchen and saw the chaos within. Dropping the butchered chickens on the counter, he shuffled quickly from the room yelling he was going to get his gun and solve this once and for all.

That caught the attention of Athos, who thought the old cook might just carry out his threat. So taking a second bottle off the shelf, he uncorked it with his teeth, and with a bottle in each hand, walked over to where Aramis and Porthos were eyeing each other, spoons and lids raised.

"Gentlemen, a peace offering," he said shoving the partially drunk bottle of wine in Porthos direction.

The streetfighter eyed Athos' offering, then dropped his 'weapons' and accepted the wine. "This is much better."

He held out the bottle to Aramis, who also put aside his weaponry to take a drink. Raising the bottle high, the marksman saluted, "To peace. May it always taste this good."

Meanwhile, Athos took a sip from the second bottle as he moved across the kitchen to where d'Artagnan was still frantically chopping vegetables; onions to be precise, which were making his eyes tear-up terribly. Aramis and Porthos wandered over to the table and watched their weepy brother work.

"Let's go," Athos commanded his protégé who, from of force of habit, halted his frantic chopping and looked at his mentor.

"But we're not done," d'Artagnan pointed out with a sweep of his knife at the handful on onions still left to chop.

"Close enough," Athos insisted, holding out the wine bottle to the Gascon in hopes he'd choose that over finishing the onions. The swordsman really did not want to be here when Serge returned with his musket.

"Don't cry. We'll protect you from Serge," Aramis solemnly offered, though it was spoiled a bit by Porthos' small snort at the end of the sentence.

D'Artagnan placed the knife on the counter and accepted the bottle of wine from Athos, taking a healthy swig.

"Come," Athos commanded his brothers as he headed for the door.

As if he was a spy in an enemy's castle, Athos cautiously approached the door and checked to see if the coast was clear. Seeing no sign of Serge, he entered the courtyard and skirted around the edges, trying to keep to the shadows. At one point they saw the old cook come out of the building where his room was with his trusty musket in his age-spotted hand. The four Musketeers remained perfectly still in the shadows, waiting for the cook to pass by. As soon as he was gone, Athos reached over and took the wine bottle from d'Artagnan and downed a good portion of its contents. The younger Musketeer looked at him, but knew better than to say anything.

They started their stealthy journey again after a quick discussion that it might be best for them to leave the garrison for the rest of the evening and lay low, so to speak, in a tavern. They were nearly through the garrison's arched gateway when they heard Serge's cry from the kitchen. They stopped and turned as one to look back to make sure he wasn't running out the door to chase them down with his musket. When it seemed the old cook wasn't going to hunt them down like wild boar, they turned back towards the gate and were met with an unexpected sight coming out of the shadows, Captain Treville on his big, black stallion.

"Damn," Athos swore, as he lifted the bottle to his lips. They were caught so why bother to pretend. Every drop of wine he could get into his system between now and the lecture that was sure to come would be worth it.

Porthos, who had the other wine bottle, hid it behind him, but when the Captain arched an eyebrow at him, he held it back in front of him.

"Evening Captain," Aramis said, playing the diplomat. "And where are you returning from?"

The captain sat a bit deeper in his saddle and rested his hands on his right thigh. "Would you like to venture a guess?"

"Probably not," Athos drawled as he raised the bottle to his lips once more, ignoring the dark look being thrown at him by his Captain.

"The Palace," Treville enlightened them, turning his attention back on Aramis. "The King summoned me. Seems he was wondering where was the soup for his wife. His true love."

Athos visibly cringed. "Another damn true love quest," the slightly tipsy swordsman muttered. He went to raise the bottle to his lips, but d'Artagnan reached over and took it from him.

"We're supposed to be sharing this," he reminded his friend. "You've had more than your fair share."

Treville pinned d'Artagnan with a look. "Did you complete all the tasks Serge required of you?"

"Ah, mostly. Yes. All but chopping the last three onions," the lad answered truthfully.

"I see. Would anyone care to explain why I thought I saw Serge entering the kitchen with his musket?" Treville questioned the Inseparables.

Aramis suddenly found a carrot peel on his frock which he brushed off as if he were grooming his entire stallion. Porthos shifted the wine bottle back and forth from hand to hand. D'Artagnan studied the Captain's horse's front feet as if they were the most interesting thing in the universe. Only Athos, after swiping the bottle back from the distracted Gascon, and taking a fortified drink, offered up an answer.

"It would seem that Serge doesn't approve of our…kitchen skills." He held up his bandaged finger as a case in point. "Wielding a sword in battle appears to be less hazardous then peeling a…carrot." The swordsman gave a little nonchalant shrug. "I think Serge was going to teach us the errors of our ways, so we thought it best to…depart."

"So you should probably keep out of Serge's sight for…" the Captain queried trying to ascertain how much damage they had caused in Serge's kitchen.

Athos ran his free hand through his wavy locks and squinted as he thought about the Captain's question. "At least a day, or two. Maybe three."

The Captain sat quietly on his horse for a few more moments as the Musketeers tried not to fidget on the ground. "Have you ever noticed Serge in the stable?" he finally asked.

"No. Not really, Captain," d'Artagnan answered, switching his gaze from the horse's feet to his Captain's face.

"Neither have I," Treville said with a bit of mirth that caused Athos to groan.

"Did you say something, Lieutenant?" Treville demanded of his second in his best command voice.

"No…Sir," Athos mumbled as he stared at the near empty bottle of wine. He knew exactly what was coming next. Raising the bottle he drank it dry, then let it slip to the ground.

The Captain clapped his hands, loudly, startling both his horse and his Musketeers. With a large grin on his face, he swung down off his steed and handed the reins to d'Artagnan. "Good. I have noted of late that the garrison's stables are not up to par. I'd be highly embarrassed if the King came to visit his regiment and saw such a disarray in the stables."

"King couldn't find the garrison if his carriage was parked in front of it," Porthos griped to Aramis.

"So for the next three days, you four are confined to the stables. You will clean every stall, every nook, every cranny, repair and polish every piece of tack, and groom the horses until they shine like diamonds. I expect the garrison's stable and its occupants to be spotless by the time you are finished."

"We have to sleep there?" Aramis asked, not sure if he was truly understanding what his commander was demanding of them.

"Of course. Serge knows where each one of you sleeps. Wouldn't want him and his trusty musket seeking you out in the darkness," the Captain explained as if it were the most rational statement in the world.

"I see," Aramis said slowly, indicting he really wasn't thrilled with this whole stable thing. "I suppose we have slept in worse places."

"What about food?" Porthos practically whined. He hated to be hungry.

The captain shook his head slowly. "That is a problem when you piss off the cook."

"We could go to a tavern," Porthos helpfully suggested, knowing that it would be shot down.

The Captain ran a thoughtful hand over his chin. "That doesn't seem in the spirit of the punishment. No, I think you will have to make do with what you find in the stables. Water, oats, apples and carrots. Oh, but Athos…"

The swordsman looked over at his Captain, wondering how much wine was left in the bottle Porthos was still holding.

"You are forbidden to peel any more carrots. I don't wish to explain to the King that his best swordsman cut off a finger peeling a vegetable."

Athos tilted his head just enough to indicate he heard and acknowledge the Captain's barb.

"Off you go then," the Captain said, waving them towards the stable.

The four Inseparables unhappily slogged across the dirt courtyard to their new home.

"I wonder who will get to bring the soup to the Queen," Aramis pondered before Porthos reached over and swatted him in the head.

"Anyone but you," the streetfighter grumbled.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Again, this has an animal related death in the story. If that upsets, please don't read.

* * *

 **TLQ 4**

The bedraggled bunch of Musketeers stood in front of the Captain's desk in various states of disarray. Each man was sporting rents and tears in their attire, as well as cuts and bruises on their visible body parts, and they reeked of smoke. Treville could only imagine what colorful contusions lurked underneath their clothes; the Musketeers looked like they had just returned from a war.

The Captain rubbed a weary hand over his face and through his short hair, which he swore had gone prematurely grey because of the four men standing in front of him. Each one of them had their eyes fixed on the horizon and stood at a sort of ragged attention, though he could see the strain it was causing on them to remain in that posture. Torn between being a disciplinarian and a kind and benevolent leader, he debated about releasing them so they could sit down before they fell down. He hated to admit it, even if only to himself, but he was overly curious as to what had happened on this mission, why they were in such a state, and where the objectives of the endeavor were located.

"You men look terrible." Waving towards the section of his office where there was a grouping of chairs near the fireplace hearth, he command, "Sit. Then report to me your tale of woe, for I am sure it is one."

With an audible sigh of relief, Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan shuffled over to the chairs and carefully arranged themselves in them, each man adjusting his body to cause the least amount of pain on their cuts and bruises.

The Captain sat on the raised hearth, around which the chairs were grouped, and raked his eyes over his Musketeers once more before settling on Athos.

"Did you retrieve the King's gift from Le Havre?" he demanded of his Lieutenant.

"Yes," Athos answered slowly, his eyes studying a rent in his doublet.

"And where is it?" The Captain highly admired his Lieutenant's prowess with a sword and his tactical mind, but not his annoying brevity of speech.

"They are…" The Musketeer hesitated for a moment, almost as if having a quick internal debate on whether to tell the whole truth or a modified version. "…gone."

"I see," the Captain said in a voice that clearly indicated he did not. As Athos seemed to have drifted off, his eyes half-closed, the Captain prodded, "Athos. Gone where?"

The swordsman seemed to snap awake and the Captain was fascinated to observe his normally unflappable Musketeer become distinctly uncomfortable with having to answer his inquiry. Unconsciously, Athos rubbed his hand along the side of his bearded chin, then winced as he apparently ran across a sore spot. The swordsman's green eyes met those of his three brothers before settling back on the Captain. "They were…unsuitable," he finally answered.

"Unsuitable," Treville repeated slowly. "And since when is it a Musketeer's job to decide the gift his King wishes to present to his Queen is unsuitable?"

The Comte started to squirm again, as much as his upbringing would ever allow. "They were…" the uncomfortable Musketeer winced, "treasonous."

The good Captain couldn't suppress the guff of laughter that escaped from his lips and Athos looked a bit offended at the noise. "Trust me, Captain, this is no laughing matter."

"Athos, how can a bunch of birds be treasonous?" the Captain skeptically questioned the man, who was staring at the floor.

"I need a drink," Athos mumbled as he raised his eyes and let them wander towards the cabinet in which the Captain stored his liquor.

Aramis quickly spoke up when he saw his brother's eyes lingering on the wine bottles. "Oh no. Not with your head injury."

The Musketeer Lieutenant glared at his brother, but didn't push it any further for the man was right; he had been knocked unconscious for a while and still felt the effects.

"What do you know about these four calling birds you sent us to fetch for his Majesty?" Athos asked out of curiosity, to see if the Captain had even an inkling of what the birds were capable of doing.

Treville leaned back against the warm bricks surrounding the fireplace, allowing the heat to soak into his back, which had seen a lot of abuse over his years as a soldier. "They are exotic birds, from the islands. Colorful. Rare."

"They were all that," d'Artagnan agreed with the Captain's description of the birds. "Quite beautiful, actually. Amazingly colored feathers."

"Yes," Aramis agreed a bit wistfully. "Their plumage would have made an excellent addition to my hat. But alas, no feathers fell from their frames while they were with us."

"I'm still failing to see how these pretty birds, as you say they were, could be treasonous," the Captain declared, trying to steer the conversation back on track.

Aramis picked up the narration of their tale. "These birds could talk."

"Talk?" the Captain echoed . "I know the King referred to them as calling birds, but I didn't think he meant it literally."

"Yes. Well they could talk. Not quite as elegantly as you or I, of course, but I do believe they were more communicative than Athos." Aramis smiled sweetly over at his Lieutenant, who rolled his eyes but didn't offer up a rebuttal.

"I dunno Aramis. I thought that one bird did a real good job at mimicking you," Porthos teased with what only could be an evil twinkle in his eye.

"These birds, the ones your sent us to fetch, could mimic human speech. It was really quite amazing, if not disturbing at times." D'Artagnan rolled his shoulders and the grimace that crossed his face indicated he must have done some damage to them. "Though it wasn't like the birds had a conversation with you. They simply absorbed what they heard around them and imitated it."

"Usually," Aramis added with a sigh, "at the most inopportune moments."

"And therein lies the treason part. Amongst the other interesting phrases these birds had picked up in their travels, there were a few that were slanderous to his Majesty, the Queen and France in general." Athos closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. "To bring them back here and give them to the King would have been…unfortunate... for the birds and, I fear, for us as well. I might hang someday, but I'd like to think it would not be because of a talking bird."

They proceeded to take turns telling Treville about their journey, mostly d'Artagnan and Aramis, with Porthos adding color commentary once in a while. Athos, for the most part as was his nature, remained quiet. It was obvious the man was under-the-weather, as were all his brothers.

"The trip to Le Havre was smooth and uneventful," Aramis began the tale. "Sunny though cold. We made good time and had no trouble finding the correct ship. Thinking back, the Captain seemed relieved to hand over the four cages. After having lived with those creatures for a short time ourselves, I think we now understand why."

Aramis stretched his long legs out and winced when he jarred his knee and it made a crackling sound that was louder than the fire's snaps and pops. "The ship's Captain told us we had to be careful to keep the birds warm, wrap the cages in blankets while we rode and no camping outside."

"I think there was truth to his words, but we also learned later, the hard way, that the birds typically didn't talk when their cages were covered. If we had known that before the tavern, we might not be suffering so much." d'Artagnan noted wistfully.

"And why is that?" Treville queried, not quite sure where this was headed.

The dozing swordsman shook himself awake for a moment. "The damn birds insulted everyone in the tavern, quite colorfully and repetitively. The other patrons found them somewhat…offensive... and expressed their displeasure, physically. But, as they were technically the King's property, we were duty-bound to protect them." Athos' perturbed tone indicated exactly what he thought of the whole affair.

Trying to present the story a bit more logically, Aramis picked up where he had left off. "The ship's Captain, after giving us instructions on how to care for these birds, eagerly took the King's money and left us on the docks with four bird cages. Thoughtfully, well at least as we surmised at first, each cage already had a well-fitting cover. Still, the wind was bitter and we didn't want to take any chances with their delicate conditions, so we secured the cages to our mounts…"

"…who were none too happy," Porthos reminded his brothers, who nodded in agreement.

"…and wrapped another blanket around each cage before we set out. We planned to stop at the last inn we came to before night fall. Things went smoothly on the road back to Paris, and there was a vacancy at the inn when we arrived. We secured a room, but since there was no fire lit in it, we opted to keep the birds, in their cages, with us in the tavern's main room. The birds caused quite a stir when we took the covers off the gilded cages. People had never seen such a colorful species before, and word soon spread throughout the little town. The owner of the tavern was delighted when people poured into the inn to see the birds and he quickly set about selling them ale and savories while they gawked at our fine, feathered friends."

"And that," d'Artagnan picked up the thread. "Is when we first learned they could talk, though it took us a while to catch on I admit. We were sitting at a long table, the four bird cages on the end, uncovered. We figured they would enjoy being able to look about. Porthos was the first to actually hear them talk, though he didn't realize it was them at the time."

"Thought Aramis was speaking in Spanish for some reason. Knowing how high tensions are I didn't think it was a particularly smart idea," Porthos said as he pulled off his gloves revealing a hand covered in cuts and scratches with knuckles that appeared a bit swollen. "Even Athos looked up from his glass of wine long enough to admonish him."

"They were out of wine. It was ale," Athos growled, and the unspoken 'stupid inn' was clear as a bell.

"And I," Aramis defended himself, "thought those two were simply giving me grief for amusement sake." He looked from brother to brother; one grinned and the other gave an indifferent shrug.

"Then, he starts whistling at the barmaid every time she walks by. She, of course, liked that," Porthos said with a sigh. Everywhere they went, Aramis always attracted the ladies' eyes, whether he tried to or not, though most often he was simply an out-an-out flirt.

"But, once again, it wasn't me," Aramis supplied, building upon the pattern that would become their evening.

"So, the innkeeper walks behind me and suddenly I hear someone say, 'This food is horrible.' Needless to say, the innkeeper wasn't pleased and suggested I keep my commentary to myself. But it wasn't me, Captain," the ex-farmer from Gascony declared indignantly.

"The damn bird was right," Porthos muttered under his breath. "The food was bad."

"It was Athos who finally figured it out, and if it hadn't been for the fact I knew he hadn't been drinking anything but ale, I wouldn't have believed him when he said it was the birds talking," d'Artagnan bluntly stated, and Aramis and Porthos nodded their heads in concurrence.

"I recalled reading in a book once, when I was a boy, about species of birds that could imitate human voices. I confess I thought it was an exaggeration until that night." Athos leaned back in his chair, left hand rising to massage his temple. "They truly were the perfect mimic."

"Which is where the problem arose. While they were perfect mimics, they had no sense of when to keep their beaks shut," Aramis stated with a slight grin. "And, they had learned some very, shall we say, colorful phrases in their journeys."

"And those colorful phrases kept getting us in trouble, they did," Porthos exclaimed mournfully. "No one believed it was the birds talking and not us. After a few fights, we had to take the damn creatures and go up to our room before a full-scale war broke out. No cards…"

"No women…"

"No wine…"

"And no sleep until we finally got smart enough to put the covers back on the cages. Then they shut up nice as could be," d'Artagnan said with a slight shake of his head. "I guess it's like putting a hood on a hunting hawk.

"We left next morning early, figuring it was best if we didn't show our faces."

"Didn't even get no breakfast," Porthos interrupted Aramis, who gave him a quick smile before continuing the tale.

"We were in a bit of a quandary. We were well aware that these four calling birds were gifts that his Majesty wished to present his Queen. However, we weren't so sure these birds were exactly what the King imagined. But, as it really wasn't our place to determine that, we started out for Paris."

Aramis paused for a moment, his voice gone a bit rough from all the talking. Treville rose, went over to where he kept his wine, poured five glasses and handed them round to the Musketeers, keeping the last one for himself.

Athos gratefully accepted the glass from his Captain, ignoring the glare being thrown at him by Aramis. He'd drunk wine when he had a concussion more times than he could count and it hadn't killed him yet.

After setting his own glass near the fire, to mull a bit, for it was getting a bit nippy in his chambers, Treville gestured for Aramis to go on with the story.

"We decided it might be unwise to come to Paris with the birds until we learned a bit more about them and their colorful phrases, so we headed for another inn for one more night. However, this time we were smart enough to keep the birds covered and take them directly to our assigned chamber."

While Aramis lifted the wine glass to his lips and refreshed his parched throat, d'Artagnan took over the narration.

"It was a good thing we did." D'Artagnan shook his head dubiously as he continued. "It would appear the sailors on the vessel that brought them here had no love of France, her Queen, or her King, for the birds had memorized some very insulting phrases."

"Such as?" Treville still had trouble thinking birds could be treasonous.

The musketeers all squirmed with embarrassment, but Aramis finally said "They questioned the King's virility, for one."

"And the Queen's chastity," Porthos added indignantly.

"And some very uncomplimentary remarks about French courage and fighting ability," d'Artagnan put in.

"Then there was that song in English that I'm sure somebody would be glad to translate for the King. Athos reminded them. "As much as I could tell it questioned how the king could get the Queen pregnant when he had no . . . "

"Alright, I get it!" Treville interrupted, understanding why his men had considered ignoring the King's commands.

"Knowing our King, he might choose to hang us alongside the treasonous birds," d'Artagnan said half-jokingly and half-seriously.

Athos rubbed a weary hand over his the side of his face. "We didn't think it would be wise to bring those four calling birds to his Majesty, especially not as a present for the Queen. Yet, they weren't our property to do with as we wished."

"Well, as they are not here with you now, I have to conclude something happened to them." Treville ran his eyes over each of his Musketeers, wondering which one would confess first. In the past, he could have counted on d'Artagnan to cough up the truth, but of late it appeared he had been taking lessons from his mentor and had become much better at holding his own council.

The Inseparables remained quiet as they each thought back to the long, loud and lengthy debate they had had over the birds' fate in their room at the last inn. There had been no disagreement about bringing the birds to the King and Queen; that was unacceptable. But what to do with the four birds had been much more contested.

Aramis and d'Artagnan wanted to leave the cage door open and let them take their chances in the wild. Athos wanted to shoot them and take no chances that their treasonous phrases ever were uttered again. Porthos had backed up Athos' plan, but wanted to cook them for dinner. When his brothers rounded on him, giving him strange looks, he had simply shrugged and said he was hungry.

They decided to sleep on it and make the final determination in the morning, but fate had other ideas. Improper banking of the fire, a stray spark, a candle knocked over in haste, no one would ever know, but something set the inn on fire that night.

The building was old, the wood both dry and soaked with cooking greases. It ignited quickly and burned fiercely. The four Musketeers woke to a smoke-filled room and flames. Already, the heated, smoke-dense air was making it hard for them to breathe. Only thinking to grab up their weapons, they crawled towards the hallway, but discovered it was a blazing inferno and impassible. That left the window as the only means of escape and they had chokingly made their way back across the room.

Without thought, Porthos smashed his ungloved fist through the window's glass sending it showering onto the dirt below. It was decided that Porthos would go first and Athos would bring up the rear. The streetfighter pushed his bulk through the rectangular frame, hung by his muscular arms and then dropped into the courtyard below. Aramis went next, doing the same, but as he let go, a small explosion in another part of the inn rocked the building. His trajectory was thrown off and he landed heavily on one knee. Porthos assisted him to his feet and out of the way as d'Artagnan pushed his lithe frame through the window.

The flames were engulfing the room and Athos was pressed up to the window even as d'Artagnan was hauling himself through it to drop below. Another explosion, closer this time, went off causing the Gascon to wrench his shoulders as his hands were ripped from the window sill. His body plummeted to the ground but like a cat, he landed on his feet. Athos was pushed through the window by a rush of flamed-laden hot air and he helplessly tumbled through the air to the ground below, where he hit his head and passed out.

Only later, after they had seen to each other's injuries and were sitting in the barn, which was still intact, did any of them recall the birds. Even though they had been scheming of any way to get rid of the creatures the night before, the four Musketeers felt terrible about their fate.

"And so here we are, worn, battered and without the King's four calling birds," Aramis declared as he rubbed his knee a bit to ease the ache.

Picking up his warmed wine, Treville took an appreciative sip as he wondered how his Majesty would take this tale, well the modified version that the Captain would present to him in the morning. However, his Majesty would no doubt be upset he didn't have the gift he wanted for his Queen.

While they had been speaking, Athos' eyes had drifted shut and he had dozed off. It was a testament to how hard he must have hit his head that he didn't immediately wake when Aramis reached over and shook his arm. When he did rouse, he blinked groggily about him, taking a few second to process where they were and what they were doing. The Captain didn't miss any of this and ordered them to clean themselves up, eat, sleep and not to report in the morning. They were to rest and recover for a day or two.

Porthos rose and slipped an arm under Aramis' shoulder to help him take some of the weight off his injured knee, while d'Artagnan assisted an unsteady Athos to navigate his way out of the captain's office. Treville shut the door behind his troops and wondered how many more of these bizarre assignments his men would have to go on. So far, there had been a repetitive theme of birds running through all of the King's gifts. He wondered what would be next, for deep down the older soldier had a feeling there would soon be another 'true love quest,' as the Inseparables had taken to calling the King's fanciful missions.


	5. Chapter 5

**TLQ 5**

As missions went this one wasn't shaping up to be so bad. The Musketeers had coined the phrase 'true love quests' to describe the bizarre missions the King kept sending them on to fetch gifts for the pregnant Queen. What made this fifth quest nice is it didn't involve a stupid bird of any sort, Aramis thought. No partridges. No doves. No hens. No treasonous talking birds.

This operation was about fetching jewelry, gold rings to be precise, a gift the Queen might actually enjoy. Of course, the King went to excess, as he had with all these strange gifts, and demanded five golden rings to give to the mother of his unborn child. Whether it was one for each of her fingers, or some other strange unknown significance, five was the magic number in his Majesty's mind. It was ironic that less than a year ago the King had been unintentionally scheming with the Cardinal to rid France of her Queen and now he was as devoted to her as if she were the last woman on earth. Amazing what a difference an heir, after so many years of waiting, could do to a monarch's disposition.

The King commanded that the four Musketeers ride to a jeweler outside of Paris, who was known to render beautiful pieces in gold, and purchase five rings. Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan, recovered from their injuries obtained while fetching the obscene talking birds, were anxious for some activity. Their Captain wasn't unaware of the restlessness building in his Inseparables. Over the years, he'd learned the hard way that when those four grew bored and sought to occupy themselves, it usually resulted in some event that had him called on the carpet by the King or the Cardinal. As of late, things had been rather quiet about Paris, which was a good thing, unless you had four restless Musketeers whose itch for adventure couldn't be scratched by standing guard at the palace.

Another few inches of snow had fallen overnight, the type that adhered to everything, however, the roads remained in fairly good condition. Treville decided to send all four of the Musketeers on this mission for two reason; what they were ferrying would be of great interest to highwaymen, and it took care of the restlessness issue. Two birds with one stone so to speak.

In an odd turn of events, the King decreed the Musketeers were to select the five rings for him, since he didn't want to leave the Queen's side. He was acting as if the baby was due any day even though the blessed event was still months away. Normally, the King would have sent a carriage to bring the jeweler to the palace with his wares, but for some reason Louis decided that would spoil the surprise. Treville, not understanding the King's logic, simply had nodded his head and assured the King that his Musketeers were uniquely qualified to complete this mission.

Athos was a Comte, from one of the oldest families in France, raised in the world of luxury. He would be able to judge both quality and price of the jewels, not that the King cared about cost, but Treville knew the Cardinal would be very concerned about the drain on France's coffers. Porthos would also be able to judge the quality, but from a slightly different perspective. Having been raised in the Court of Miracles, he was trained to develop an eye for spotting good pieces of jewelry that would fetch a handsome price when stolen and resold. Aramis was the romantic of the group and would assure the rings were of exceptionally beauty, especially since they were for the Queen, the secret love of his life. And last, but not least, d'Artagnan was down to earth and would assure the pieces were elegant and not overstated.

The Inseparables set out first thing in the morning and the trip to the craftsman's shop in the town was uneventful. It took a little more than half a day for the four Musketeers to ride to the jeweler's workshop on the snow-covered road. When they arrived, they discovered the master craftsman maintained a large selection of items available for purchase. After seeing his rings, it didn't take the four long to confirm his reputation was well-founded.

The musketeers went over the jeweler's selection of rings with a fine-toothed comb, often having vigorous and loud discussions, while trying to make the final five choices. The artist, an older grey-haired man, at points throughout the afternoon, was tempted to laugh at some of their conversations, but thought better of it as each Musketeer was impressively armed. Still, it was quite amusing as well as enlightening listening to these four battle-hardened soldiers argue whether the design of the ring was too whimsical, elegant, or chunky for her majesty's fingers. There was more to each one of these men than merely royal guards to the King; each man had an interesting undercurrent running through them.

After the final five were selected and a price decided, the master craftsman declared he had to work on three of the five rings to adjust the circumference so as to fit her Majesty's finger. He announced it would take him the remainder of the day and they should go down the street and book a room at the inn for the night and return in the morning. The Musketeers eagerly agreed, not minding having to spend a night away from the garrison, in which they had been cooped up too much of late.

The inn was a pleasant, cheerful establishment where the proprietor had decorated for the upcoming holiday season with swags of pine and holly. Athos was overjoyed to discover the innkeeper had a discerning palate and stocked a splendid array of wines. The swordsman chose a nice red and settled into a comfortable chair in the corner, near the fire, to enjoy his vintage.

Porthos found a spirited card game to keep him occupied, where the players were very good, offering up a challenge for the experienced player. Aramis was surrounded by pretty, and for once, single ladies with which to flirt. Both of his brothers figured if he did disappear upstairs with one of the ladies, they wouldn't be forced to rescue him from some irate husband later in the evening. D'Artagnan sat down with some farmers from the region, and they discussed all matters relating to agriculture, while the fire slowly burned down.

Their evening passed enjoyably and uneventfully and in the morning after a hearty breakfast, the four Musketeers were in good spirits when they headed back to the jeweler. As promised, the five golden rings were ready. The first was a simple gold band with a square cut, deep green emerald, embedded in what almost appeared to be flower petals. The next ring had a cameo on it, the silhouette of a woman that looked remarkably like the Queen, mounted on a deep blue piece of lapis. The third ring was very unique in that it was extremely wide and studded with many chips of various precious gems giving it a unique glow; like an abstract rainbow. The fourth piece featured a sapphire in a stylistic setting that almost looked like the Fleur de lei that represented his Majesty's regiment. The fifth and final ring was an elegant diamond, shaped like a teardrop with a clarity so dazzlingly it looked like a star fallen to Earth.

After each ring was examined, it was wrapped in a small, soft piece of silk and placed in a leather pouch, which was handed to Athos. After he tucked it into a pocket on the top portion his doublet, Athos paid the jeweler and the Musketeers headed for their horses. After mounting, they tipped their hats to the artist, who had come outside to see them off, then cantered away down the road.

"I have come to hate snow," Aramis declared three hours later as the four Musketeers rode their horses on the road, under the snow-covered trees in the forest.

"Because of Savoy?" d'Artagnan asked, not meaning to be insensitive, but more out of curiosity. He knew that it was a very dark chapter in Aramis' book of life.

"Well yes, there is that, but in this case, it is because this damn snow keeps falling off the tree branches above us and somehow making it past every barrier and running down my spine. I'm freezing!" As if to prove his point, a large shiver racked his frame.

"Perhaps you should dress a little more for the weather and a bit less for fashion," Porthos sarcastically suggested to his chilly friend. "I'm nice and toasty."

"Please. It has nothing to do with my choice of clothes. I have lots of layers on. It is simply because you are bigger than me and therefore keep warmer," Aramis innocently replied, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.

Porthos turned in his saddle to glare at this brother. "Did you just call me fat?"

Athos, sensing a prolonged verbal battle was about to begin, debated about ordering them to shut up. But if the past was an indicator of the future, it would most likely be ineffectual. He supposed he'd be subjected to their inane wagging tongues for the next few hours, for he got the feeling they were just warming up their repertoire. And recently he noticed d'Artagnan willing to enter the fray, making it last that much longer. The edge of the scarf wrapped around his neck came loose and as Athos reached up to tuck it back into this coat, he debated about securing it around his ears instead. The scarf could be used to block out the babbling of his brothers.

As he feared, they went on for hours as they rode through the forest. The wind picked up quite a bit and it whistled through the trees, stirring the loose snow on the ground and making it seem even colder. As they rode two breast along the road, an unexpected fierce gust of wind roared through the trees and dumped branches full of snow on their unsuspecting heads. The horses neighed and tossed their heads in the air not enjoying the blizzard-like conditions from the snow swirling around them from above and below.

The eight highwaymen, who were lying in wait for the four travelers to approach, were appreciative of the unanticipated help mother-nature was lending to their ambush. While the four Musketeers were pre-occupied with the mini-snow storm, the thieves launched their attack.

Aramis heard the gun go off, but had no idea where the bullet hit, if it all. The wind kept whipping up the loose snow on the ground around them, making it nearly impossible blizzard-like conditions in the area. Aramis drew his sword, rather than his pistol, because in such low visibility he might shoot one of his brothers by mistake. Out of the whiteness, strong arms reached up and yanked him off his horse. His sword flew from his hand as he tumbled over Fidget's shoulder to the ground below. Landing on his side, he attempted to grab his main gauche, but quickly found himself in a wrestling match with two opponents.

D'Artagnan and Athos, who had been riding side by side, felt something push across their chest and knock them backwards off their horses. The Gascon managed a fairly good imitation of a shoulder roll off the back of his mount, landing nimbly on his feet. Athos, who couldn't make the rotation, slid down Roger's side, landing on in a heap on the ground, his main gauche leaving a nice impression in his flesh.

The robbers had a bit of a surprise when two of them reached up to drag Porthos off his steed and instead found themselves being lifted off the ground by the back of their collars. One of the highway men reversed his knife and used the pommel to bash Porthos' arm causing the musketeer to grunt and involuntarily release his hold. Dropping to his feet, the thief sprinted to the other side, took his dagger and once again whacked Porthos' other arm to get him to release the highwayman he had suspended in the air.

Fighting in winter gear was not easy and Aramis found it hampering his ability to move freely. The only good news was the layers of his clothing helped cushion the blows raining down on his body courtesy of the bandits. The bad news was he felt like a bloated tick trying to fight back. An unseen blow to the side of his head left him momentarily stunned and the robbers used that to their advantage to drag him by his arms to a nearby tree and secure him against the trunk with a rope. When he awoke, he found they had divested him of all his weapons before leaving him to assist their fellow thieves subdue his brothers.

Athos drew his sword and tried to slash at the legs around him, but he wasn't able to get any leverage or muscle behind his swings to do any meaningful damage. His hat had fallen off earlier, and his scarf was working its way loose, enveloping his face and limiting his vision. He didn't see the snow-covered boot tip that smashed into the side of his head, causing him to slump and drop his weapon. He woke a few minutes later after the bandits had secured his hands and his feet. His two assailants left him laying in the road so they could help in the battle. Soon there were four bandits trying to overcome Porthos and four others harassing d'Artagnan.

Having a hunch the odds were not in their favor, Athos made a quick decision on how to try to protect the King's property. He could feel the pouch in the inside pocket of his doublet by his chest. As his hands were tied in front of him, he was, through a series of contortions, able to get the pouch out of his pocket.

Taking a furtive look about him, Athos saw all the thieves were engaged with subduing either Porthos or d'Artagnan. Using a low whistle, Athos attempted to call Roger over to him. The big stallion flicked his ears in the noisy environment and it wasn't until Athos repeated his call that the horse ambled over to where Athos lay tied-up on the ground.

Using a different tone, Athos coaxed the stallion to lower his head to where he could clumsily grab his bridle. Roger wasn't sure why his rider was holding his head down, but the horse and rider had built a mutual trust over the years, so he didn't resist. Awkwardly, Athos secured the strings of the leather pouch to Roger's long thick forelock, which hid it perfectly. At one point, he accidentally caused the pouch to open and he prayed none of the rings fell out. Finally, he got it tied and after giving Roger an awkward pat on the forehead, he whistled once more. The horse knew that tone too, and he raised his head and moved off.

The four bandits trying to overpower Porthos, tried a new tactic, snaking a rope around Flip's feet and yanking them out from under him. The horse could get no traction in the snow and he fell heavily on his side. Porthos was forced to leap clear of Flip to avoid having his leg crushed. The Musketeer skidded upon landing, fell on his back and slid into the base of a nearby tree that proceeded to dump snow on his head. Two of the thieves used that moment to draw their pistols and aim them at the downed Musketeer. When Porthos finally shook the snow out of his eyes, he was staring at the barrels of the guns. Knowing a losing proposition when it was pointed at him, Porthos quietly lay as his hands and feet were secured by two men, while the other two kept their guns trained on his him. When they were done, they dragged him over to where Aramis was secured and tied him to a tree trunk next to marksman.

D'Artagnan, the last man standing, had his rapier and main gauche drawn even though he was surrounded by four of the highwaymen. The unusual vortex of snow had blown itself out and the mini-blizzard had abated. The sun was even shining through the trees. He was now, by taking quick glances around him, able to discern the fate of his brothers; all three were tied up. He was the lone Musketeer on his feet. As he glanced over at Athos to see what his leader wanted him to do, a glint of gold caught his eye. Trying not to be obvious, he shifted his position a bit towards the glint in the snow, noting that his circle of captors moved along with him.

Athos had no idea what d'Artagnan was up to as he seemed to be subtly moving in his direction. There was no hope of escape, so the lad's actions puzzled him. D'Artagnan edged one more foot to his right, then he said, "I can see I am beat. I'll lay my weapons on the ground."

Slowly d'Artagnan bent over and laid his rapier in the snow and then his main gauche. With his left hand, still on the ground, he reached up with his right and took his pistol off his belt then added it to the pile. Placing both hand on the ground, he slowly pushed himself upwards, then straightening, he held his hands out in a cooperative gesture to be tied. Less than five minutes later, he was secured to a tree near Porthos and Aramis. Athos was dragged through the snow by his feet to join them, though they didn't bother tying him to the tree. The swordsman wasn't appreciative of being hauled about like a log because snow kept getting inside his coat and pants making him colder and even more miserable.

The bandits were almost as miserable as the Musketeers because they weren't finding anything worth the struggle they had just gone through. From each Musketeer, they got a few coins and their weapons, but nothing valuable enough to be worth the risk they had taken attacking the King's guards. They slapped the Musketeers around a bit out of sheer frustration, not that it produced any more loot.

Suddenly, as if spooked, the Musketeers' four horses disappeared into the woods. The bandits, not wanting to lose the horses and their gear too, left the Musketeers alone and quickly mounted up to give chase, hoping to at least salvage something from this whole mess. The four Musketeers immediately began formulating a plan to escape the second the highwaymen rode off to pursue their horses.

"Nice move," d'Artagnan complimented his mentor. "I barely heard your whistle."

"Well luckily Roger did," Aramis said, wise to the tricks of Athos and his mount.

"I had no idea, when I taught him that, how useful it could be," Athos declared with a slight smirk.

"And the others horses are so use to following Roger, they naturally take off after him," d'Artagnan said with a spark of appreciation. "Do you think, with this snow, the bandits will be able to catch them?'

"Doubtful. Collectively, they are quite a clever group," Aramis adamantly stated. "Unlike their owners who are still tied up. Athos, I assume you have your little blade in your boot?"

His three brothers were well aware of the small, custom knife Athos carried in his boot. He worked with the bootmaker to install a small sheath in which to carry the knife on the inside of the calf of his right boot. It was the same sharp little blade, when they were on the road, that he slept with tucked under his pillow. More than once, his brothers had come close to being sliced with the blade by unexpectedly waking him.

"Throw your legs over mine and I think I can reach inside your boot and grab it," Porthos directed since he was the closet of the three to Athos.

Awkwardly, Athos lifted his legs, which were secured at the ankle, into the air. He tried to control their decent into Porthos' lap, but judging by the moan the streetfighter made when they landed he must not have done a very good job. "Sorry," he said, apologetically.

"That's OK," Aramis earnestly assured Athos. "One Porthos in this world is enough. We don't need a bunch of little ones running around."

"Speak for yourself," Porthos wheezed as he breathed through the pain.

"And can you imagine his daughters?" Aramis did a phony shudder that wasn't too hard to fake given the cold.

"They'd be a damn sight better looking than you. And tougher too!" Porthos retorted as he began to reposition his hands to try to retrieve the blade from Athos' boot.

Silence descended on the group as Porthos struggled to get his tied hands into Athos' right boot. He could feel the top of the blade's handle with his fingertips, but he couldn't get his large, tied hands far enough down in the boot to secure a hold on the knife.

Athos was uncomfortably lying on his back in the snow, legs propped up on Porthos' thighs, staring at the trees. His body temperature was dropping and he was doing everything he could not to shiver, knowing it wouldn't help their cause if his legs started flopping around like a fish out of water.

"Not a lot of room in here," Porthos grumbled as his fingers kept slipping off the handle.

"Are you saying my legs are fat?" Athos demanded, staring upwards at the tree branches.

"Was that a joke?" Aramis questioned, looking over at his prone brother. "You, who barely smiles, thinks now is a good time for levity?"

"They say levity can be useful in tense situations," Athos deadpanned, struggling to suppress another shiver.

"Well here's a riddle for you," Porthos said, as he withdrew his hands from Athos' right boot. "How the hell do we get that blade out of there when I can't get a hold on it?"

D'Artagnan, who had examined the knife and sheath in Athos' boot in the past recalled that after the first inch or so, the blade slid out pretty smoothly. "Porthos, how far can you get the blade out of the sheath?"

"Maybe an inch. But I can't get my fingers wrapped about it."

"Perhaps you don't need to. Athos, if Porthos loosens the knife, and you raise your legs straight up in the air, do you think it will it fall out?" d'Artagnan asked with a hopeful look on his face.

Athos was silent while he considered the question. He wasn't really sure if it would work if the truth were told, but it was worth a try. "Do it," he instructed the streetfighter.

Porthos stuck his fingers down the boot to loosen the blade as best as he could, then he withdrew his hand. "Ok."

Athos gathered his strength, which was failing from the cold. "Porthos, could you help, boost them a bit?"

Porthos placed his hands on Athos' ankles and shoved his legs skyward so vigorously, that the swordsman started to roll up on his shoulders. Tightening his stomach muscles, Athos got his legs under control. He felt the knife slide a little way towards the open end of his boot, before its progress stopped.

"Its stuck," Athos panted, trying to wave his legs in a productive manner.

"I think it would help if you bounced on your bottom, more than wiggled your leg," d'Artagnan tentatively suggested, though he looked a little uncomfortable saying it.

For a moment, Athos lay perfectly still, head and back in the snow, legs in the air. "Not a word," he growled as be began to heave his butt off the ground and 'bounce' as d'Artagnan had suggested.

And it worked. After a few bounces, the knife slid out of the boot, fell onto Athos' stomach and then slide to the ground next to him. Athos let his legs fall back to the ground being careful not to smack Porthos. Rolling to his side, he got his fingers around the handle of the dagger and picked it off the snow. Carefully, he transferred it to Porthos, because his own limbs, between the exertion and the cold were shaking too much; he was afraid he'd cut everything but the ropes.

It took a while, but eventually they were all free and back on their feet. Athos took back his little knife and tucked it in his boot.

"I shall never make fun of that again," Aramis swore after Athos had slipped it away. "I'd love to have my pistols right now. And my sword."

"Yeh, your gonna need them to defend yourself when the King finds out we lost his rings," Porthos said glumly.

Aramis began to curse. "My God. How could I forget. Athos, the rings, did they take them?"

Before Athos could reply, in the distance came the sound of hoof beats and as one, the musketeers turned to face the sound. All their weapons had been taken, so d'Artagnan and Aramis grabbed sturdy branches, Athos redrew his small knife and Porthos just stood and waited, formidable in his own right. Fate was smiling down on them as their own mounts came trotting out of the trees.

D'Artagnan gathered the reins of his horse and placed a hand on the animal's lathered chest. "They've been running pretty hard."

"Best we move out quickly then. Who knows if the bandits are still chasing them and how far away they might be," Aramis said as he grabbed Fidget's reins. After mounting, a large smile lit up his face. "My musket is still here!"

"As is mine," d'Artagnan exclaimed as he too mounted and in fact all the muskets were still on the musketeer's horses.

Porthos swung abroad Flip and only Athos remained on the ground.

"Hurry up, Athos. It will be bad enough explaining to Treville that we lost the King's rings. I don't want to explain how we lost you too," Aramis scolded as he swung Fidget around to see why the swordsman was still on the ground. He drew his musket and laid it across his thighs in readiness, as did d'Artagnan and Porthos. The sound of hoof beats in the distance rang through the air.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan screamed as he spun his horse towards the sound of the oncoming horses.

"I'm sorry old friend," Athos said as he reached up with the knife and slashed a huge hunk of hair out of Roger's regal forelock, which, when he was done, more resembled a mangy dog's tail.

"What the hell?" Aramis demanded as Athos stuffed the bundle of horse hair inside his coat, tucked the knife away in his boot, then sprang on his horse.

"Come," he bellowed wheeling Roger around, the horse pirouetting like a ballet dancer. "We'll get ahead of them and set an ambush."

They rode at a conservative pace until they found a good location for an ambush. Hiding the horses in the woods, the musketeers spilt up and climbed the embankments on either side of the road, dropped onto their bellies in the snow and training their muskets on the roadway.

"Four shots, gentlemen," Athos reminded them, as if they didn't know. "Make them count and reload quickly."

They had made enough headway, that they had to lay in the snow for quite a few minutes before the bandits finally came into view. Waiting until they were definitely in range, one by one the Musketeers picked off their targets. As the four highwaymen in the front tumbled off their horses, the four behind swiftly turned their mounts around and took off in the opposite direction. Dealing with these Musketeers wasn't worth it.

The Musketeers rose, slid down the shallow embankment and met below on the snow packed road. While Athos, musket reloaded kept watch, Porthos secured the bandits horses, d'Artagnan went to fetch their own horses from the woods, and Aramis examined the dead bodies on the road.

Porthos was happy to find their weapons belts and swords scatter amongst the four horses and he collected them all. Then, he gave each horse a sound slap on the rump, which sent them scurrying away. After that, he walked over and stood next to Athos.

After inspecting the fourth inert body, Aramis straightened and walked over to where Athos and Porthos stood. "As always, my shot was perfect and yours were close enough to do the trick."

Athos ignored his brother's jibe, but Porthos rolled his eyes and grunted, "Dead is dead," he stated as he handed his brothers their weapons.

As d'Artagnan led their own horses over to them, Aramis noticed the chunk of hair missing from Roger's forelock and remembered that it was shoved in Athos doublet.

"Did you hit your head, Athos?" Aramis asked with concern as he eyed poor Roger's haircut.

"No," Athos answered in his clipped tone that meant he wasn't in the mood to be questioned.

"Then why did you feel the need to give Roger a haircut? I hate to tell you, my friend, but you will never have a career as barber. One would think someone with your sword skills would be a tad neater when trimming his horse's mane." Aramis walked over and ran a hand down the mangled forelock before giving Roger an apologetic pat on the nose.

"I thought the King might appreciate if we returned with this," Athos declared as he reached into his jacket and pulled out the hank of horse hair.

"I don't know," Aramis said speculatively, "It's not quite the right color to match his Majesty's hair."

Athos reached into the clump of hair and pulled the leather pouch to the surface. "When we were ambushed, I figured we'd be search as would our possession. However, no one thinks to examine a horse's forelock for contraband."

"You tied that to Roger's forelock?" Aramis crowed half in delight and half in disbelief. "How very novel."

D'Artagnan handed Flip's reins to Porthos. "Good thing Roger's has, well had, such a thick forelock." Handing Fidget' reins to Aramis, he continued, "However, I'm not a slouch at hiding things either."

"Meaning?" Porthos prompted as he gave Flip a pat on the shoulder.

Having divested himself of everyone else's reins, d'Artagnan dropped his own reins knowing his mount wouldn't wander off, and then begin to strip off his left glove. "I think if you open that pouch, Athos, you will find it a bit light."

With an arched eyebrow, Athos opened the little leather sack and dumped the contents in his palm. There were four item wrapped in silk and one little piece of empty silk. Cursing vigorously under his breath, he checked the sack once more still finding it empty.

"Luckily, I saw a glint of gold in the snow and retrieved this." D'Artagnan held up his left hand, and on his pinky was the emerald ring. "I guess it slid out of the pouch when you were tying it to Roger's forelock."

"And where did you hide it from the bandits?" Porthos asked, surprised it hadn't been found and confiscated.

"In the last place one would look for a ring. On my finger. If you recall, I have a rather large slit in my left glove that I have been meaning to have fixed. I was able to get the ring inside my glove via that hole and then wiggle it on to my pinky for safe keeping." d'Artagnan said with a smug gin.

"Well done, pup," Aramis declared, heartily slapping the Gascon on the shoulder.

Athos held out his hand for the ring. "That was excellent thinking. Now take it off, wrap it up and let's get on our way."

The Gascon wrapped his fingers around the emerald ring and gave a tug, expecting it to slide right off and when it didn't, he gave a small grunt of surprise. Trying again, he twisted it to the right and then left a few times as if to loosen it, then tugged again. But the ring stayed firmly on his pinky.

Athos cocked an eyebrow at him, while d'Artagnan desperately tried pulling and twisting to get the ring off. Porthos dropped Flip's reins and walked over to where the Gascon stood yanking unmercifully on the ring, which wasn't budging an inch.

"Let me try," Porthos said forming his strong fingers around the band, then pulling. D'Artagnan hissed as the skin on his finger was stretched, but the ring remained stubbornly in place.

Porthos, when he realized he was making no progress, stopped and looked over at Athos. "It's stuck. Really stuck."

"Cut his finger off," Athos casually tossed over his shoulder as he turned and mounted Roger.

"Athos!" Aramis admonished his lieutenant. "You're not serious."

A half-smile played about Athos' lips. "We need to leave, now, in case our friends get brave enough to attack again, or find reinforcements." He placed his heels to Roger's side and started down the road. The other three quickly mounted and followed after him.

"He's joking, right?" d'Artagnan nervously asked Aramis as they rode along.

"Well, it is the King's property," the marksman drawled keeping a straight face with a hint of seriousness in his voice. "Even if you are adorable at times, like an overeager pup, I don't think the King will want you and the ring both."

The streetfighter edged his horse closer to the Gascon. "Why did you put it on your finger anyways? Surely you knew it wouldn't fit."

"It was as more of an accident then a plan," the ex-farmer admitted. "It slid up my finger and I figured it was as safe a place as any. I had no idea it would get stuck!"

The rest of the way back to Paris, d'Artagnan kept trying to twist the ring off as they rode and only succeeded in making his knuckle swell, which made things even worse. Athos planned to go to the garrison, figure out how to get the ring off d'Artagnan's finger and then head to the palace to deliver all five rings. However, their luck ran out when they were intercepted on the street by Captain Treville who ordered them to report directly to the palace. Athos attempted to explain their plight, but the Captain cut him off and was insistent they go to the palace directly.

Their lack of luck continued as they rode into the palace courtyard and were spotted by the King from a window above. Excited to see what they had brought, the King sent his Red Guards to escort the Captain and the four Musketeers immediately to his presence. The Cardinal slithered into the room, also curious to see what the Musketeers had brought back.

The five Musketeers trooped into the room, four of whom were not presentable being covered in cuts, bruises, and snow, which melted leaving little puddles on the floor. The Cardinal gave a loud sniff as the four ragged Musketeers lined up in front of their King and bowed. As they removed their hats, a few stray pine needles dislodged themselves from their hair and fell on the marble. The Cardinal quirked an eyebrow and snorted. "How festive."

The Captain took a step forward as he defended his Musketeers. "My men were attacked on their way back here. They were fortunate that no one was seriously injured and that your Majesty's gifts were kept secure."

Treville hoped he was actually telling the truth because he hadn't had a lot of time to talk to the four Musketeers since their arrival. They appeared as if they had been in a fight, based on the bruises and cuts visible on their faces. And they looked like they were dragged behind some horses through the snow and pine needles. And he assumed they had the rings.

"Let me see the rings," the King commanded rubbing his hands together in gleeful anticipation.

Handing his hat to Aramis, Athos respectfully approached the King as he withdrew the leather pouch from his doublet. Another stray pine needled dropped from his hair to the floor causing the Cardinal to roll his eyes and sigh loudly. "We'll have to have this entire hall scrubbed."

Athos would have liked to offer up a scathing comment, but he bit his tongue and kept his evil thoughts to himself. Working open the leather drawstrings, Athos reached in, pulled out the first ring and handed the silk wrapped jewel to the King. Louis carefully unwrapped the silk to reveal the sapphire ring.

"This is the color of the Queen's eyes," he simpered as he held it to the light to watch the blue jewel glow. "Very nice. Very nice indeed."

The Cardinal edged closer and the King handed the ring over to him to examine. The priest was impressed with the design and quality of the ring.

"Next," the King ordered training his eyes back on Athos who pulled forth the second ring from the pouch and handed it to the King.

Carefully, the King removed the silk to expose the cameo ring. "Why look, Cardinal. It looks just like my Anne. How clever."

As he took the ring and inspected it, once again the Cardinal had to admit the craftsmanship was outstanding.

The third ring with the multi-colored chips was admired by all, the King noting it rather looked like a fractured rainbow. The fourth ring was the diamond, bright as the north star and equally delightful to the King.

"And the fifth? I do recall explicitly saying five golden rings for my true love," the King admonished as he stared at the lieutenant.

For those that knew Athos, they could see unease creeping into his posture. "The fifth, your Majesty, needs…polishing."

The Cardinal's eyes narrowed and his voice grew cold. "You didn't lose the ring to the bandits when you were supposedly attacked did you?"

Athos wondered, not for the first time, since he was already damned to hell, what would be the harm of taking out his pistol and putting the Cardinal out of his misery.

Aramis must have been channeling his thoughts, because he quickly spoke up. "Blessed be our wonderful God that none of us were seriously hurt or killed by the eight low-life bandits that accosted us in the woods. And that we were able to bring the Majesty's thoughtful and generous gifts safely here, to be presented to our Queen, who is carrying the already beloved heir of France."

"Tone it down," Porthos hissed at his friend with a light smack on the arm that didn't go unnoticed by Treville.

"Yes, yes. You survived the attack. How novel. Though based on your present condition, I would have thought the number of attackers were a much larger number," the Cardinal drawled as if he was sorely disappointed in their showing. "However, it still doesn't explain where is the fifth ring? I assume you are educated enough to at least count to five and know you have only presented his Majesty with four rings."

The King couldn't help himself from snickering, then to cover his impropriety he said, "Cardinal, don't be silly. Of course, these men can count to five. They just have to use their fingers." And once again he broke out in laughter with the Cardinal giving him an indulgent smile, like a father humoring a small child.

D'artagnan stepped forward, stripping off his gloves as he approached the King. "Here is the fifth ring," he declared as he held out his hand for the King's inspection. The emerald caught a shaft of sunlight and glowed a deep green.

"Exquisite," the King exclaimed in awe, as he gazed at the ring. "And it almost looks like a flower." He finally dragged his eyes from the jewel to d'Artagnan face. "I have to admit though I am puzzled, as to why you are wearing it."

Athos cleared his throat, focusing the room's attention back on him. "When we were attacked, we thought best to hide the jewels."

"And somehow you thought hiding a ring, on a finger, was strategically sound?" the Cardinal questioned the swordsman in disbelief.

Cool as a cucumber, Athos replied in a voice that bordered on haughty, "As your Eminence can see, it worked quite well for the ring is safely here."

"Fine, fine," the King interrupted. "The ring is safe and I won't even ask where you hid the rest of them during the attack. Now take it off so it can be cleaned and I can present my magnificently generous gifts to my Queen."

"Therein lies the problem, your Majesty. At present, the ring is…stuck…on d'Artagnan's finger," Athos explained solemnly.

Before Athos could go on, the Cardinal injected, "So cut his finger off," and he waved a Red Guard forward.

Athos made to draw his sword, but was stopped by a firm hand on his elbow by his captain. "While I'm sure that is one solution to the problem, I'm also sure there are other less drastic ways to resolve this issue. Surely his majesty doesn't want to maim his Musketeer."

Athos glared at the Red Guard, his hand still wrapped around the hilt of his sword. Porthos and Aramis' hands were also hovering near their weapons, and d'Artagnan had tucked his left-hand behind his back and his right was hovering near his sword.

The King gave a disappointed sigh, but agreed. "Yes, that is rather drastic I suppose. How do you propose to get it off?"

"If your Majesty would permit us to retire for a few moments, I'm sure we can remove his Majesty's marvelous ring and save d'Artagnan's finger. Treville looked expectantly at his King.

"Fine. But be quick about it. I am anxious to present these to my true love," the King declared.

The Musketeers swore the Cardinal moaned, "Unbelievable," as they left the room and headed for the kitchen. Once there, they sat d'Artagnan at the table.

"Butter should work," Treville said positively as he sent a servant off to fetch some. "Slick up the finger and the ring will slide off."

At the mention of butter, Porthos' stomach let out a mighty growl. "What?" he said non-apologetically. "I'm hungry."

The servant came back with the butter and d'Artaganan generously rubbed it all over his finger, much to the chagrin of the head cook who felt his precious foodstuff was being wasted. However, no matter how much butter they used, or how hard they tried, the ring remained stuck.

"On a cold day, while my father's guests were milling about outside, waiting for a hunt to begin, a servant brought out hot beverages and pastries from the house. One Comte stripped off his gloves and proceeded to eat the stickiest pastry. When he was done, he walked over to the nearly iced over horse trough to rinse off his hand. The coldness of the water caused his rings to slip off his fingers and sink to the bottom of the wooden vessel. It was very unpleasant, retrieving them in such icy water."

His three brothers looked at him with sympathy. "You had to retrieve them?" d'Artagnan asked.

Athos' stared back at them like it was a normal event and he didn't understand their concerns. "I was seven, fit in the trough, and was there to help the hunt off, not participate. I do confess my mother was less than please with me when I came down with a cold. She said my coughing was quite disturbing and banned me from her presence until it had subsided." Seeing no one was doing anything but staring at him sympathetically, he gruffily instructed, "Soak your hand in cold water, d'Artagnan."

Between the servants and the musketeers, they fetched a bucket, filled it with cold water and then added chunks of ice from outside. D'Artagnan stuck his hand in the bucket and they all watched and waited

"Is it feeling any looser yet?" Aramis asked after a few minutes.

"I'm not sure. I can't feel it." Grimacing, the Gascon stuck his second hand in the water and tried to remove the ring. "A little, but not enough," he answered through chattering teeth.."

"Give it some more time," Athos declared as he scanned about the kitchen wondering if he could flinch a glass of wine.

"I'm hungry," Porthos declared once more as the piece of meat that had been on the spit was removed and one of the chefs started carving it causing delicious smells to waft through the kitchen.

Another five minutes passed and the ring remained stubbornly stuck so d'Artagnan, who was shivering, was given permission to remove his hand from the icy water.

"Drastic times call for drastic methods." Aramis reached inside his doublet into a little inner pocket and drew out a needle and a thread that he kept there for medical emergencies. Next he drew his main gauche and set it on the table. Finally, he asked one of the passing servants to bring a bottle of wine. The servant looked at the head cook, who looked at Treville, who nodded his head.

"What are you planning on doing, Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked with trepidation as he watched the marksman set up what looked like a surgical table.

"I'm going to get the King his ring," Aramis said breezily as he laid out his tools and adjusted their positons on the table. "Don't worry, losing your pinky won't hurt your swordsmanship."

Athos and Porthos passed a glance between them wondering what their third was up too. They didn't believe he would amputate the Gascon's finger to retrieve the ring. Though it was a gift for his secret true love and he had done stupider things in the name of the Queen.

When the bottle arrived, Aramis took it was a gracious thank you, removed the lid and handed it to d'Artagnan. "Drink," he commanded and the boy took a nervous mouthful, nearly choking on it as he tried to swallow. Taking the bottle back, Aramis passed it around to his brothers after taking his own mouthful.

As the bottle made its round, Aramis picked up his main gauche and you could hear a collective gasp in the room. But before anyone could say anything, the medic used the knife to cut off a length of thread, which he proceeded to thread through the needle. Next he picked up the needle and much to everyone's surprise, carefully inserted it between d'Artagnan skin and the gold ring until the needle and thread slid under the band and out the other side. Removing the needle from the thread, he left a generous tail, then grabbed the other end of the thread.

"Hold your hand off the table a bit please," he instructed.

His brothers watched with curiosity as Aramis took the thread and began to wrap it snugly, but not too tightly, around the flesh above the ring, working his way over the knuckle and up the finger. When he was done, Aramis picked up the other end of the string and begin unwinding it and slowly the ring begin to move up the boy's finger. It took some care not to get the two ends of the thread tangled, but eventually the ring slid off the finger.

"You're a genius, Aramis!" d'Artagnan exclaimed with admiration as he massaged his sore pinky.

"I'm sure the Captain's butter and Athos' ice all aided in the cause," the marksman said with modesty even though it was clear he was quite proud of his feat.

Athos, who was in possession of the wine bottle took a large slug before his Captain glared at him and he placed it back on the table.

"I will take this to the King," Captain Treville declared scooping up the emerald ring. "You four head back to the garrison and get cleaned up. The King appreciates your service." With that, Treville left the kitchen to seek out the King.

"I take back my earlier comment," Aramis said as they mounted and rode out into the chilly weather. "I think fetching birds for these true love quests is easier. Let's hope there is no more jewelry."


	6. Chapter 6

**WARNING -** This talks about birds used for food and some cruel practices still in use today. Decide if you wish to continue.

* * *

 **TLQ 6**

Though it was cold outside, the King was bundled up like it was forty below. But even under all his layers of clothes, Captain Treville and his four best Musketeers could tell the King was not pleased.

"Treville. What are those things," he demanded, waving his fur-lined gloves at the objects on the ground.

Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan had formed a loose circle about the objects, attempting to keep them from scattering to the four corners of the snowy palace garden.

The ever-patient Captain of the Musketeers struggled to keep his voice and face neutral as he answered his sovereign's question. "Those are the six geese your Majesty requested, goslings actually since they cannot yet fly."

"And you'd think," Porthos whispered to Aramis, "that would make them easier to capture. But that wasn't true. They were little buggers, they were."

"Didn't help that mama and papa goose kept diving-bombing us and attacking with their sharp beaks. And boy can they squawk," d'Artagnan complained as he used his sword to carefully herd one of the goslings back into the middle of the area.

"Well what do you expect? You were taking their children away. Any parent would fight hard to stop that from happening," Aramis declared as he used the toe of his boot to encourage the little fluffy feathered behind to move closer to its siblings

"My father didn't care," Porthos muttered under his breath. "He didn't even look for me, let alone fight for me."

An awkward silence settled over the four men for a moment, as each man thought about their parents. Porthos' mother had loved him dearly, but his father had turned his back on the boy for most of his life. Aramis' mother loved him, but she did give him to his father so he could be raised in a better environment. D'Artagnan and Athos were raised by both of their parents, though only one family had true love for each other. The d'Artagnans loved their children and raised them in a warm, caring household. They may not have been rich, but they got by well enough. There was always food on the table and clothes for the winter.

Athos also was raised by both of his parents, though technically that was not true as a large portion of his care was overseen by the servants, nannies, governesses, and tutors. Rarely were his biological parents involved in his day-to-day activities as a child. Athos was more like a necessary possession to his parents, required to keep the de la Fére line alive.

Aramis cleared his throat forcing his brothers out of their reverie. "And Athos' hunting dogs were of no use capturing these chicks."

"Goslings. Baby geese are referred to as goslings," Athos corrected the marksman, because he could and he was annoyed that Aramis was bringing up the poodles, again. "And it wasn't the poodles' fault they had difficulties with this task. Their job is to retrieve dead birds not round up live ones."

"So what you are saying is we needed a sheep herding dog to round up these little guys," d'Artagnan surmised as he carefully nudged another baby goose back into the middle of the frozen circle.

"Athos seems to have a thing for those poodles, and they for him, especially the smaller, black one that simply fawns all over him." Aramis gave his friend a sweet smile and received an icy glare in return.

Porthos bent over and chased after one of the six goslings trying to make an escape. He carefully scooped up the ball of fluff and deposited it back in the middle of the circle of musketeers with its siblings. "It would be easier to keep them confined if we put them in that fountain over there. Less messy too," he groused as he walked over to the aforementioned fountain, which had not frozen over completely, and washed the goose poop off his hands.

Off to the side, the King, hands on his hips, was scolding Treville. "I asked for six geese to put into the pond I'm having constructed so the Queen can gaze upon them in her confinement. I'm sure she will find, in her current delicate condition, that the geese are soothing to watch as they gracefully paddle about."

Treville spared a quick glance at the poor laborers struggling to dig a pond in the hard-as-rock frozen ground. Winter had come early this year and they had already had their first significant snowfall which made the task even harder.

"I don't know what those monstrosities are," the King prattled on as he eyed the greyish brown fowl encircled by the Musketeers, "but they are not geese. Geese are graceful, with long snowy white necks. Regal birds. Mate for life."

Treville inwardly groaned as he mentally put on his diplomatic gloves, something he hated doing. "I fear I may have misheard what your Majesty's commanded," he ground out between clenched teeth. "I heard geese, even though I am sure your Majesty clearly said swans."

With a negligent wave of his gloved hand, the King said, "Geese. Swans. Same thing."

They are totally different, Treville felt like yelling at the King, but he valued his head and his job too much, so he simply clenched his jaw tighter and remained silent. The two men watched the four Musketeers keep their charges in place, which was no easy task. It took constant vigilance and a gentle tap of a toe to keep the fuzzy little goslings enclosed.

With a long-suffering sigh, the King turned away and headed back to his palace, waving for Treville to follow him. "I won't have those ugly things in my pond. I want big, white, wonderful geese."

"Swans," Treville gently corrected, but the disagreeable look the King gave him had him add, "as your Majesty says."

"Good," the King declared as he went inside and immediately a gaggle of servants rushed to his side, stripped him of all his winter wear and wrapped him in a lighter, inside robe. A goblet of warm spiced wine was offered to him and the King took it and sipped with an appreciative sigh. "So what will you do with those things?" he asked moving over to a window where he could see the Musketeers still standing in the bitter cold with their charges.

Before Treville could come up with a reply, there was a small sound of the clearing of a throat. "Your Majesty?"

The King quirked an eyebrow at Treville and slowly turned to see who had the audacity to address him. However, as soon as he saw who it was, a large smile lit up his face. "Pierre. Treville, this is Pierre, my chef, best in the world."

Treville and Pierre knew each other on a casual level, having crossed paths occasionally in events at the palace. The Captain nodded a friendly greeting at the chef who acknowledged the same.

The white aproned man made a shallow bow, "You humble me, your Majesty. I have personally brought you this savory tart, for I know you must be frozen stiff." The chef presented an exquisite looking pastry for his Majesty's examination.

Clapping like a small delighted child, the King instructed the chef to place the gold plate on a small table. The other servants in the room hurried to put a chair in front of the plate on the table. Utensils and a fresh glass of wine appeared and within minutes the king was cutting into his pastry.

Turning to the Musketeer, the chef inquired, "Captain, is your cook still after my job with his heavenly chicken soup?" The chef had a good sense of humor, especially for someone in his profession, and he found it amusing that some old Army cook's chicken soup was favored by the Royals over his own.

Treville offered up a gracious smile. "I think Serge has his hands full simply feeding my Musketeers. I don't believe he has any aspirations to seek a higher position."

"Your Musketeers. Yes, even in my kitchen we hear of your men's exploits," the chef said off-handedly and the Captain wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

Gazing out the window, the chef noted the four Musketeers standing in a circle around something on the ground. He moved closer to the window trying to determine what the men were guarding. "Your Musketeers are out there, but I confess I can't figure out what they are protecting."

Treville winced a bit at the term protecting. "They are…" he struggled for a word that wouldn't make his men seem any sillier then they already were guarding the six baby goslings, "…assuring that the birds stay confined."

"I wanted beautiful, white geese to swim in my new pond, so the Queen could gaze at them swimming about in the tranquil blue waters from her window while she is resting. She is with child you know," the King simpered as if it were a state secret. "My heir. My son. But," his voice grew hard, "Captain Treville and his Musketeers brought me those horrid things," he waved his spoon at the window before reapplying himself to his pastry.

Keeping his voice low, the chef whispered, "Captain, it is not for me to tell you how to do your job, but those aren't baby swans, they are baby geese."

Treville ran a frustrated hand over his chin and like the chef, kept his voice low when answering. "The King seems to have a little confusion over what is a goose verses a swan. He feels they are the same bird."

"But they are not!" the chef stated, probably a bit louder than he intended, "though I understand his Majesty is always correct, of course," he hastily added in case his outburst was overheard. The Cardinal had spies everywhere and a direct connection to the King. A dangerous combination.

The corner of Treville's mouth twitched a little at the hurriedly added caveat. "Of course. And I, and my Musketeers, misunderstood his Majesty's desires and incorrectly brought him those birds."

"And what are you to do with them now?" the chef said a bit louder, hoping to catch the King's ear for he had a plan.

"They must be removed from the palace grounds immediately. They are not pleasing and I shan't have my true love upset by their hideousness," the King declared as he scooped the last of his treat into his mouth.

The chef was taping his forefinger on the side of his face, as if lost in thought. "There is a most delicious dish, foie gras, made from geese."

The chef had once had occasion to meet an outcast Jewish chef in one of the outer provinces of France, where, even though it was technically illegal for a Christian to shelter a person of the other faith, there were some who ignored the edict. He had eaten this most wonderful form of terrine, made from goose liver, which had had been incredibly smooth and buttery. The chef had gotten the recipe from the man, but never had a chance to prepare it, as normally the geese brought to him were too old. To make proper foie gras one needed young, carefully raised birds. He stared out the window again gazing at the six young geese, and he practically was drooling.

"Of course, it takes time and special preparation to make foie gras," the chef continued spinning his tale.

"What kind of preparations?" the King inquired; having finished his treat he was now interested in this new conversation.

The chef was rather vague in his description and he deliberately didn't mention the dish contained the goose's liver. The King, he knew, wasn't a fan of liver, as he had learned the first time he had served it. But the chef really wanted those young geese to make the foie gras, so he spun his story to appeal to the king's vanity.

"Then you let them grow for a bit more before they are slaughtered around 110 days from now. Such a special and exotic dish could be served to all your dignified guests at your son's birth," the chef added playing to the King's conceit.

"What a marvelous idea! But I can't have those ugly things hanging about the palace for that long. Treville, you will take them to your garrison and raise them as Chef Pierre instructs."

"Sire, I hardly think the garrison is the proper place to raise geese," Treville stated in what he hoped was a reasonable tone.

"Do you not have other animals there?" After Treville nodded, the King went on. "Then it is the perfect place to raise those things."

"Yes, your Majesty," Treville said with a little bow, knowing he was beaten.

Rising from the table, the King declared, "And you shall follow the chef's instructions to the letter on how to raise them. After all, this is for the celebration of my son's birth! Now I'm going to take a rest. It has been a hectic morning." With that, the King swept out of the room leaving only the chef and the Captain behind.

The more the chef explained exactly how the geese had to be raised, and force fed twice a day, for 15 days, the more Treville realized what a horror this task was going to be to accomplish. When the chef was done, he left to go back to his kitchen. As Treville was making ready to fetch his Musketeers, still outside in the cold guarding the goslings, Cardinal Richelieu strode into the room.

"Treville," he purred in that deceptive voice that sounded like honey, but could sting like a bee.

The Captain acknowledged the Cardinal's presence with a small nod. "If you are looking for the King, he has gone off to rest. His morning has been trying."

"So I have heard. A mix-up. In names. How inconvenient for you, Treville." The expression on the Cardinals face didn't look the least bit remorseful at the mix-up.

The Captain of the Musketeers was amazed, once again, at how quickly the details of the palace made it to Richelieu's ears.

"But, in actuality, I was looking for you," the prelate said as he stopped and stood facing the Captain. "It seems your Musketeers, once again, have been fighting with my Red Guards. These annoying barroom brawls they are so famously known for instigating simply must cease."

"And how did you hear about this alleged fight," the Captain queried, folding his arms over his brown leather doublet.

"Come now, Treville. I'm not going to reveal my sources to you."

"You mean your network of spies."

"Semantics," the Cardinal said with a dismissive wave of his long-bejeweled fingers. "And there were injuries, some serious, to the parties involved."

Captain Treville thought back to this morning's muster. Every Musketeer not on a mission had shown up and he didn't recall anyone striking him as being injured, though one could hide that if one wished, or had accomplices. "Your men must have been the ones seriously injured for mine were all standing quite well at muster this morning."

"My informants tell me it was those four that were involved," the Cardinal accused, wagging a finger at the window. "And that Athos was the one that started the fight."

"And why are you telling this to me, and not running to the King and pressing him to have Athos arrested?" Treville asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. It was not like Richelieu to by-pass an opportunity to screw over the Musketeers.

"Maybe I am getting soft in my old age." Or maybe I am afraid of the influence you now have with the Queen, who loves your Musketeers, Richelieu thought silently to himself. "And it takes two to fight I suppose. Perhaps my man played a small role in instigating the brawl."

"That has never stopped you in the past from twisting the facts to make them advantageous to your side." Treville pressed back, knowing there must be more.

"This infernal fighting between our troops does no one any good. We need our best and brightest fighting the enemy, not each other. And make no mistake, from what I heard your man Athos is injured too. Maybe he is just better at hiding it."

You have no idea, Treville thought to himself, of how well Athos and the rest of the Inseparables can hide injuries. "I agree this squabbling between our men has to stop," the Captain said. "I shall address the seriousness of this subject with my Musketeers."

"That is all I ask," the Cardinal said with a little head tilt. With a swish of his red robe, he turned to go, then stopped and rotated back to face the captain as if he had a stray afterthought, "Have you seen Milady of late?"

And there it was, Treville thought. The real reason behind this whole conversation. It never had anything to do with a fight, though Treville was sure one had occurred knowing his men. But this was about trying to see what the Captain knew about the Cardinal's favorite spy, his once upon a time mistress, and incidentally the wife of Athos.

"I have not seen, nor have I heard anything about Milady since she tried to kill my men in that alley. All things considered, they showed great mercy in letting her live," Treville answered truthfully.

Richelieu narrowed his eyes as he absentmindedly rubbed the first joint of his thumb against his lips leading Treville to believe the First Minister of France had no idea where she went either. With a brusque nod, the Cardinal turned on his heel, leaving Treville alone in the room.

A short while later, Treville was outside addressing his men, who looked distinctly frost bitten. "Gather the geese and bring them back to the garrison."

"Why?" Athos asked his leader through chattering teeth.

"Because they are not swans nor ready to eat yet," the Captain replied cryptically, and with that he began to walk towards the stables. "And once you have secure the fowl somewhere safe within the garrison, report to my office," he commanded over his shoulder.

The four Musketeers stood looking at each other and then the six geese at their feet. "Do you think we should let them have a quick swim in the fountain before we leave. It is not totally frozen over and they are, after all, waterfowl," Porthos suggested, always having a kind and open heart for all creatures great and small.

"No. I think not. It is cold out here and some of us shouldn't even be out of bed, let alone, standing about in this weather," Aramis declared with a meaningful look at their Lieutenant, who gave him an indifferent glance, even though his side was killing him and he felt feverish.

"Porthos, d'Artagnan. Gather up the goslings and let's be gone. Not you, Athos," the marksman scolded when he saw the man start to bend to retrieve one of the geese. "So much for this true love quest," Aramis declared as he bent and secured the last two wiggling bundles of feathers.

"I get the feeling this is not quite over yet," Athos said prophetically as they headed to the palace stables to get their horses. The swordsman had gotten skilled over the years at reading between the Captain's lines so to speak and he was sure of two things; the geese weren't coming to the garrison for a holiday and the Captain, somehow, knew about the fight.

The goslings were securely locked in one of the box stalls within the garrison's stable that had no outside window and bars everywhere else. The perfect jail for the geese, even if they suddenly learned to fly. D'Artagnan slid the stall door shut and latched the lock before the four Musketeers trooped out of the stables debating what to do next. They knew they had to go see the Captain, but Porthos and d'Artagnan were all for making a quick stop in the mess hall for something warm to drink and a plate of food to fortify them. By now, they all assumed the visit to the Captain's office was not going to be a good session.

Athos, whom Aramis made sit on a hay bale and rest the whole time they were in the stable securing the goslings, wasn't opposed to a side trip to the mess hall if he could avoid the food and imbibe the wine. The wound in his side from the fight was aching abominably.

Aramis was undecided because no matter what, something was going to go wrong. He was hungry too and something warm would be really nice. If the Captain was going to be yelling at them, he knew d'Artagnan and Porthos would bear it better on a full belly. However, Aramis wasn't born yesterday when it came to the habits of his Lieutenant and he knew Athos wasn't going to eat, but only drink. On an empty stomach, injured, running a fever, that wasn't going to be a good combination. But on the other side of the coin, a little wine would help fortify Athos enough to make it through Treville's lecture without fainting at his feet, which would be a dead giveaway. All four Musketeers believed by now that Treville had somehow heard about the fight, but Aramis was an eternal optimist who liked to think they might get lucky and somehow still escape the Captain's wrath.

The decision on whether to eat or not was taken out of their hands when they emerged into the courtyard and saw the Captain outside his office staring down at them. They didn't know how he did it, but he seemed to have an ability to find them when he wanted. With a sigh, they altered their path trying to make it look like they were always on their way straight to his office. The Captain stood on the porch and watched as each of the four musketeers climbed his steps, though his eyes mostly lingered on his Lieutenant, who he thought appeared flushed and out of breath.

They all filed into the Captain's office and he shut the door behind them before moving up to his desk where the Musketeers had already lined up. Today, Aramis was at the head of the line with Athos between him and Porthos. Perhaps it was in case their Lieutenant fainted, they could grab him before he hit the floor.

"Your King is ordering you to raise those six geese, until such time they are fit to eat," Treville said without preamble.

The four Musketeers stared at him with a puzzled look on their faces. Musketeers raising geese in the garrison?

"Exactly what does raising geese entail?" Athos asked, knowing there was more to this than met the eye.

Walking over and standing within a foot or so of his Lieutenant, the Captain stared at him and said, "Wouldn't the better question be why does the King want his Musketeers to raise geese instead of serve as his royal guard?"

"No. I'll stick with my original question… thank you," Athos replied, somehow managing to sound sincere, not sassy.

A small bead of sweat appeared from under Athos' hair and trickled its way down the side of his face. The Captain didn't flatter himself thinking that anything he said made the man sweat. Athos was as cool as a cucumber under pressure. If the swordsman was sweating, it was illness or injury related. Moving back to his desk, the Captain perched on the edge, bracing his hands on either side of his thighs.

"On my way out of the palace, Cardinal Richelieu stopped me and told me you four have been up to your usual barroom brawls again." Holding up a hand to forestall Aramis, who was getting ready to deny the claim, he added, "Don't lie to me. Athos, you seriously injured your opponent?"

Aramis, the medic of the group, fended that question. "A thrust. To the side of the abdomen. Fifty-fifty chance of recovery. It was outside, slippery and there were a lot of them."

The Captain's eyes flicked from Aramis to settle on Athos. "Why?" His tone was honest, beseeching, commanding and sympathetic.

Athos closed his eyes and bit down on his lower lip. Would the humiliation of his wife never cease. He knew he should have ignored the taunting of that jack-ass of a Red Guard, who was a minor noble, aware of who Athos was and his background. Athos knew his wife was a whore and a murderess, but somehow when it came out of the other man's mouth he had seen red and lost his temper. He had ripped her necklace from his neck and left it back in the dirt covered alley where she had tried to murder him and his brothers. Yet somehow, he was unable to rip away the tendrils she had intertwined around his heart. He bowed his head, but couldn't find a voice to speak.

When Athos bowed his head and remained silent, the Captain looked over at his three brothers who he knew would protect and defend each other in all things. Finally, it was d'Artagnan who softly said, "They made some ugly comments about Milady. And he lost it."

"I see," the Captain said quietly as he leaned back on his desk. "Aramis, how badly is he injured and what about the rest of you?"

"Considering everything, we were most fortunate. A few nicks, scraps and bruises, but nothing out of the ordinary. And Athos would have been fine too if that cowardly guard hadn't struck him in the back while we were helping the injured. The fight was well over and we had all put up our swords and were helping the injured to their feet, both sides working as a team for we were all ashamed of our actions in the end. And one guard, for reasons only he will know, drew his sword and slashed Athos across the lower back. I have cleaned and stitched it, but he shouldn't be walking around, let alone riding or doing anything else."

"And why is he?" the Captain demanded even though he knew the answer.

"He's Athos," Aramis simply said and all his brothers nodded in concurrence.

"You are a fool, Athos. You preach head over heart and yet you don't live it yourself. How are you going to feel if that man dies?" The Captain didn't expect an answer and he didn't get one. More kindly he said, "You can't keep letting your wife rule your emotions. You are too good a man for that."

Athos said not a word and continued to stare at the floor.

"So," the Captain started as he pushed off his desk and walked around to sit in his chair behind it. "For the next seven days, you, Athos, are confined to your room. You are to rest and heal. If Aramis gives the ok, on the eighth day and for the next 15, you will feed those geese 4 pounds of grain a day, spilt between two feedings."

"There's no way geese of their size can eat that much a day!" d'Artagnan, who was once a farmer, exclaimed.

"They can and they will. It is called force-feeding and it will allow them, in 115 days or so, to be slain to make foie gras. The chef at the palace, for whom you are raising these geese, suggests using a tube of some sort to pour the grain down their throats."

"This is cruel and inhumane," d'Artagnan declared, with Aramis and Porthos nodding in agreement. Only Athos offered no opinion as he stared at the floor.

"It is your King's direction and who are we to question his orders? He wants foie gras to be served at the feast celebrating the birth of his son and heir."

After another few seconds of silence, Treville continued with his punishment. You are all confined to the garrison for a month unless on a mission. Your pay will be docked to pay for any damage done at the location of this fight, as well as to the families who might have had their source of income temporarily incapacitated. And, since cleaning the stable after the soup debacle doesn't seem to have helped your behavior, you will do the armory next, top to bottom."

With that, he dismissed the men and they shuffled out. Just before he walked through the door to leave, Athos raised his fever-flushed face and looked at his Captain. "I hear what you say and I wish I could follow your advice."

"You can Athos. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for," the Captain said earnestly, but his Lieutenant only gave him the hint of a sad smile as he turned and walked away.

Eight days later, Athos was sufficiently recovered to try a first feeding session with the goslings, who were growing bigger every day. He had done a little bit of research on the methods of raising geese and ducks specifically for foie gras and had found them barbaric. But his King commanded it so he obtained a tube and forced the grain down into their stomachs. After two days of torture, the geese, who had become rather friendly, sat listlessly on the floor, and Athos couldn't help but feel that they were in great pain. Even on orders from the King, he couldn't bring himself to torture them anymore so he simply sat with them on days three and four, watching them slowly get better. He stopped anyone else from feeding them or going near them saying it was upsetting to the geese. For once, his brothers respected his boundaries and left him to his task.

On the fifth day, Athos discovered the geese had recovered enough to flap about the stall, imitating flight. That night, he made his move. Securing six baskets that he could lash to the side of a horse, he made ready his plan to help the geese escape. In the wee hours of the morning, when all were asleep, he snuck to the stables to saddle up Roger, along with his brothers three mounts, which knew him almost as well as did his own. The horses were patient as he strapped a basket to each side of their saddles and then placed a goose in each one. Eventually, everything was secured and he led the four horses into the aisle of the stable where he daisy-chained them, one to another, before mounting Roger and then gathering Fidget's reins in his free hand.

Obediently, the three horses followed each other as if this was a daily activity. Athos had been pretty sure they would all cooperate, because at one time or another each horse had been secured to another when their riders were hurt.

Through the darkened streets of Paris, he led them outside the city and to a secluded pond of which he knew. Once there, he removed each goose from its basket and placed it in the water. He stood there in the moonlight, watching them happily swim around. Hopefully they would learn to fly and find a new home. Quietly, he mounted Roger, grabbed Fidget's reins and the caravan, minus the geese, headed back to the garrison. Once there he brushed everyone down, put everything away and hopefully left no sign of the night's adventures. The last thing he did was leave the door to the geese's prison wide open.

Washing off any telltale signs of his trip, he fell into bed, hoping he would be able to get a few hours of sleep before the alarm was raised. His side hurt like hell from all the activity, but he didn't care as long as the geese were free. He hoped he was strong enough to survive whatever punishment the King dealt out to him.

Athos had been expecting to be called to the Captain's office and was surprised when when he heard a strident knock on his own the door. Groaning, he dragged himself to open the barrier and found himself nose to nose with the Captain.

Wasting no time, Treville asked, "Why did you let the geese go free?"

Athos turned, headed for the bed, sat down on it and ran a hand through his messy hair. "It was cruel."

The Captain came into the room, shutting the door behind him. "You kill men for a living. How can feeding a goose be any crueler than that?"

Athos sat up a little straighter on the bed, wincing as his stitches pulled. "I like to think I only kill people who deserve to die, in defense of my King, my country and my brothers." The Musketeer went on to explain how horrendous force-feeding the geese was and what it had done to them.

"And what am I to tell the King of this?" Treville questioned when Athos grew quiet again.

"Tell him the truth. I'll take wherever punishment he hands out. Just be sure he understands I did this on my own. I don't want anyone else getting in trouble for my actions."

"You are confined to your quarters until my return, Athos. I'll send Aramis up. Let him look at what you have done to that wound," Treville ordered as he turned and left the room.

Of course, all his brothers came to his room and soon got the truth from Athos, even though the rumor about the garrison was the latch on the door failed, for it was found on the dirt by the half opened door. Athos was puzzled by this news because when he had left the door had been wide open and the lock and latch were not broken.

Later that evening the Captain returned from the palace and found, as he expected, all the Inseparables in Athos's room.

"I convinced the King that the geese honestly escaped," Treville said once the door was shut and they were all settled about the room.

"You lied," Athos appeared confused. "Why?"

"You were right. It was cruel. So I led the King to believe the lock on the door failed and the geese escaped out the partially open door.

"But when I left, the door was fully open and the lock and latch were fine." Narrowing his eyes, Athos studied his Captain. "You went back in and made it look like an accident."

Treville shrugged, but neither confirmed or denied his actions.

"Was the King very upset?" Porthos asked and all eyes turned to the Captain for an answer.

"He wasn't pleased, but I did remind him that as a soon to be father, it was important he ate right and that perhaps fatty goose liver wasn't such a good idea. The King had no idea fois gras was liver-based and he immediately banned it from any of his tables. It seems the King is not a fan of organ meat."

"So it all ended well," Aramis said with a relieved sigh. "Though Athos, you could have clued us in and let us help."

"I didn't want to take a chance on anyone being punished," Athos explained in that simple off-hand manner he had when it came to his own personal well-being.

"Well you four are not totally off the hook." Treville said, sounding slightly amused. "The King has a new mission for you. What do you call them? True love quests? He needs swans for his new pond. Seven to be exact. You are going hunting, gentlemen."


	7. Chapter 7

TLQ7

"And back to the birds again," Aramis griped as he bundled up, wrapping his blue sash about his waist.

Porthos, who was shoving one last pastry in his mouth before he had to go out in the cold, grunted in agreement. "Could do without any more of these love quests."

"True love quests," Aramis corrected him gently. "Remember, they are for the Queen."

Porthos simply rolled his eyes and swallowed the last mouthful of food. Athos was already geared up and standing by the door with his protégé. "Hurry up. I don't want to be doing this in the dark. Or at all," he added under his breath, causing d'Artagnan to chuckle and Aramis to frown.

"It's for the Queen," he reminded his brothers for the hundredth time.

They headed out into the courtyard where the stable lads had brought out their horses, who were stamping their feet and shaking their manes, not enjoying the frigid weather either.

Athos quickly mounted after thanking Jacque for tacking up Roger, then he turned his mount to face d'Artagnan's. "So you're sure these swans are on the island in the middle of the Seine?"

"Yes," the lad answered before urging his horse next to Athos' as they turned and headed for the garrison's arched gateway. "You can see them, well with a spyglass, from the eastern shore."

"Why are swans on an island. I thought they swam in water," Porthos questioned Aramis, who was riding beside him.

"Maybe their legs got cold," Aramis suggested with a slight grin.

"More likely," the ex-farmer chimed in, "they are on land because the Seine is frozen over solid. Makes it hard to swim."

The four horses had pulled abreast as they headed for the river. "So we're gonna walk across the frozen river, snag the swans and haul them to the King's pond," Porthos asked as they looked across the frozen expanse.

Athos gave him an absent sort of nod as he wondered if the plan would actually work. He'd never tried something like this before.

"What stops them from simply flying away?" the streetfighter persisted trying to draw some more details out of their uncommunicative Lieutenant. "They fly. I've seen them."

"Birds of flight can be rendered earthbound by clipping feathers on their wings. It stops them from being able achieve proper lift," Athos explained as he scanned the river and sky as if he expected to see the swans fly by.

"Sounds cruel," Porthos declared, scowling at the thought of taking away the swans' God-given talent to fly.

"I don't disagree. But the King is determined to have swans swimming in his new pond. The Cardinal's suggestion was to chain weights to their legs so they wouldn't be able to escape," Athos told them, with an undercurrent of disgust in his voice.

Porthos looked even more upset by that idea. Anything being chained, human or otherwise, upset the man, whose ancestors had been shackled to the decks of slave galleys as he and Athos had.

"Wing clipping seemed the least…cruel," Athos said with resignation, knowing they had a duty to their King.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, none of them comfortable with this mission but knowing they had no choice but to obey their King. When they got to the Seine, they rode along the banks until they were directly across from the small island that sat in the middle of the river. They drew up their horses, then sat looking over at the sparsely treed island. There were faint white blobs which they confirmed were the swans with a spy glass.

"We're not riding the horses across I gather," Porthos grumbled, even though he knew the horses couldn't walk on the ice. The problem was neither could he; he always ended up slipping and falling.

Dismounting with a laugh, d'Artagnan observed, "Horses and ice. Not a good combination."

The other three Musketeers also dismounted and Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan walked to the edge of the river after securing their horses to nearby trees. Athos tied Roger's reins to a handy tree branch then began digging in the overstuffed saddlebags, removing a number of cloth sacks and throwing them over his shoulder. Stripping everything off his weapons belt but his main gauche, he tucked the miscellaneous items in his saddlebags along with his pistol. Using one of the leather straps hanging from his saddle, he also strapped his rapier to Roger's side. After giving his faithful mount a pat on the shoulder, he took the two coils of rope hanging from his saddle, and walked to where his friends stood examining the ice-covered Seine.

"It's frozen all the way across and as far as I can see," Aramis noted as he scanned up and down the river. "Looks solid, as if you could drive a wagon on it."

Athos dumped the items he was carrying on the ground before scrutinizing the frozen surface himself. "It might look solid, but one has to be careful with any body of water that has a current, like a river. The moving water under the ice can cause thin patches that are hard to detect. It would be best if we didn't have any extra baggage on us, so do divest yourself of your weapons. Hopefully, there are no pirates on the island," he added with a tiny smirk, "and that the swans are not too formidable foes."

While his brothers did as requested, Athos secured the end of one rope around his waist, making sure, with a tug, that the knot was tight. When d'Artagnan joined him, he handed him the rest of the coil instructing him to leave twenty feet of rope between them, before tying it around his waist. Aramis and Porthos did the same, with Porthos being the last to attach himself to the rope because he was the strongest and could serve as an anchor. And, if he fell, which he most likely would, he wouldn't knock everyone else down.

Cautiously, they set out across the frozen river that was a mixture of colors. They stayed to the areas that were a clear blue, avoiding the very dark and very white areas which indicated possible structural weakness in the ice. Athos went first, tapping a thick tree limb on the ice as he went along, listening for the change in sound that might indicate a thinning of the ice.

The Musketeers' boots were made for riding, not walking on ice, and the soles were quite slippery. However, as consummate swordsmen, they had exquisite balance and were able to shift their weight to stay on their feet, for the most part. Porthos, in the rear, did fall once and out of instinct, he grabbed the rope and jerked Aramis off his feet. The marksman landed on his tail bone with a howl. The good news was since Aramis fell so unexpectedly, he didn't have time to yank on the rope and cause the domino effect on d'Artagnan and Athos. The two lead Musketeers stopped, turned and observed as their brothers yelled and cursed at each other as they attempted to rise. It took them a few tries but eventually Porthos and Aramis got back on their feet. Athos offered up no comment, simply started walking toward the island once more.

The wind was brisk, making their noses and cheeks turn cherry red, though it wasn't blowing hard enough to impede their progress. Still, it took more than twenty minutes for the four Musketeers to make their way across the frozen Seine to the island where the swans were nesting. They all let out a sigh of relief when they were on solid ground again, even if it was a tiny island in the middle of the river. At least it wasn't likely to sink and the snow was a lot less slippery to deal with than pure ice. Untying themselves from the rope, they coiled it up and left it by the river for their return trip.

"I noticed you didn't bring your favorite poodles along on this quest," Aramis teased Athos as he brushed some snow off the calves of his boots.

"I feared that, like Porthos, they would have problems negotiating the ice," Athos replied, with a small grin at the streetfighter.

D'Artagnan looked over at his mentor. "So what is the plan to catch seven swans, alive? Rope them?" The Gascon gave a meaningful look at the second coil of rope Athos still had looped over his shoulder.

"I hope your plan didn't involve the sacks you brought from the garrison because you left them on the other shore," Aramis pointed out to their Lieutenant.

"No. Those are for bringing our captives back to the King's pond."

"So how we gonna catch them?" Porhtos inquired bringing the conversation full circle.

"Aramis and d'Artagnan are going to herd them, one at a time towards you. You will wrap your arms around them and hold them while I remove a few feathers to deny them the ability to fly. Then we will place a loop of rope about their necks and walk them back across the ice to the shore." When he was done explaining his plan, the others simply stared at him. "What?" he demanded. "Do you have a better suggestion?"

Since they honestly didn't have a better scheme, they shook their heads. How to catch a live swan was not something any of them ever imagined they would have to undertake, especially as a Musketeer.

They set about to explore the island in order to locate the swans and it didn't take too long to come across the small bevy in a grove. They were nesting in the snow and looked up with curiosity, though not yet alarm, when the Musketeers entered their clearing. What must have been the lead swan stood, stretched his wings and stared at them regally.

"This seems wrong," Porthos grumbled again.

"Wrong or not, we have our orders," Athos stated factually as he took the rope from his shoulders, undid a length and drew his main gauche. Slicing off a length, he nodded for Aramis and d'Artagnan to choose their first victim while Porthos flexed his arms and fingers in preparation of catching the bird. The Gascon and the marksman decided to go for the leader first, figuring if he were captured, the rest might fall in line easier. Stalking like jungle cats, the lithe men converged on the swan, which was beginning to grow agitated and make strange snorting sounds.

"Reminds me of your snoring, Porthos," Aramis pointed out to the non-amusement of his friend.

The large white bird began flapping its wings noisily as well as stamping its feet.

"What's going to stop him from taking off?" d'Artagnan called over the noise of the flapping bird.

"A swan needs at least 30 yards on land, without obstructions, to take off. They don't have enough room," Athos yelled back over the din.

"How is it you know so much about swans?" Porthos asked with curiosity as they waited for the swan to be driven in their direction.

"I read a lot as a youth." Athos glanced over at his brothers as they drew nearer to the angry waterfowl. "Perhaps I should have mentioned they tend to be…"

The swan reached out its long neck, hissed and snapped down on the fingers of d'Artagnan's outstretched hand, causing the Musketeer to yelp in pain.

"…nasty and will use their sharp beak to protect themselves," Athos finished. He glanced over at Porthos and shrugged. "Perhaps I should have mentioned that…sooner." Porthos nodded his head in agreement with a small smile.

They watched as Aramis made the lad take off his glove so he could inspect the damage. "All good," he called to Athos and Porthos who were watching uneasily. "The leather glove protected his fingers."

D'Artagnan, whose fingers were still throbbing, wasn't so sure he agreed with the cheerful way the marksman delivered the verdict. "They still hurt," he complained plaintively.

"Nonsense. There are no broken bones, and the skin isn't even scraped."

While Aramis was talking, the swan had grown bolder, sneaking up on the unsuspecting Musketeer from the rear. Once again it reached out its long neck and snapped its beak, pinching the flesh on Aramis' behind. The ambushed marksman let out a very loud shriek, spun, and reached for his sword to defend himself only to discover two things: his sword was on the other bank of the river and his attacker was a white swan.

Athos and Porthos traded amused glances again. "I guess we shall have to watch out for their beaks," Porthos said with solemnity, which he maintained for about two seconds before bursting out in laughter. "Aramis. Goosed. Fittin' somehow."

"Technically, he was swanned," d'Artagnan corrected as he kept an eye on the white wonder, which had retreated a few feet.

Aramis, who was tenderly massaging the site of the wound with his hand scowled at all his brothers. "I think that white devil broke the skin."

"Unless you want to be camping out here tonight with these swans, you'd best start moving," Athos declared in that bored Comte tone he used when he felt his brothers were being inane.

"Just wait until he gets you," d'Artagnan muttered as he moved closer to their quarry.

But his tone wasn't soft enough and Athos cheekily replied, "Never going to happen."

With two of the Musketeers closing in on the large white swan and two more waiting to capture it, things started to move forward. Aramis took off his hat and waved it at the hissing waterfowl, driving it towards Porthos. As the bird got closer, a small frown appeared on Athos' face.

"Are you going to be able to hold him?" the swordsman asked as he watched the huge white-feathered object drawing nearer. The swan actually looked a heck of a lot larger up-close than Athos had imagined.

"No problem. I once wrestled a bear and won," Porthos declared with some pride.

"Why?" Athos was having a hard time fathoming why anyone would want to wrestle a bear.

"It was very cold, very rainy and there was only one cave. Kind of a winner takes all situation."

"And I assume you won?" Athos stated, not quite sure if he was buying into this tall tale.

"Got the scars to prove it. Wanna see?" He straightened up and started to reach for the button on his coat.

"Maybe later," Athos suggested in a tone that said never. "Right now I think it best we focus on the task at hand."

It wasn't pretty and by the time Porthos had the swan firmly in hand, there were a few white feathers floating in the air as well as stuck in his curly back hair; but the swan was subdued. Being a fairly intelligent animal, the swan eventually stopped struggling when it found it couldn't escape. Not to say it didn't keep trying to pinch them with its beak if the opportunity presented itself, but it didn't mindlessly thrash about.

Athos directed Aramis and d'Artagnan to unfold the swan's left wing and stretch it out. The fowl didn't care for this new wrinkle and it took a few minutes for things to get under control again. Athos stripped off his gloves because he wanted to have the utmost control over his main gauche, not wanting to injure the bird any more than necessary. The cold was already making his fingers numb and he knew he had to hurry this along. Thinking back to the illustration in the book he'd read, he squatted next to the bird, selected the feathers he wanted to prune and went to work. Surgically he removed the feathers from the bird's wing, which would render flight impossible. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he disfigured the beautiful wing.

His fingers were growing distressed being exposed to the frigid air and he was having a harder and harder time controlling the blade. Suddenly, an unidentified object slammed into his back, knocking him off-balance. He lost control of the knife and the sharp edge slashed cruelly across his left palm as he was slammed into Porthos and the swan.

For a moment, mass confusion reigned as the four Musketeers, the swan and the unknown assailant struggled to find their equilibrium. Aramis and d'Artagnan stumbled backwards, letting go of the wing lest they break it. Porthos tumbled backwards with the swan clutched to his leather-clad chest. Athos pitched forward and, unable to use his injured hand to brace himself in time, ended up face first in the snow.

Aramis and d'Artagnan were the first to recover and they searched to see what happened to their attacker. They started to snicker when they saw who had had the audacity to confront them, or rather sneak up on them. Porthos struggled to sit up with his arms full of swan and as soon as he did, he followed the two laughing Musketeers' gazes and started chuckling himself.

Athos was the last to recover. He rolled onto his side then used his good hand to push himself into a seated positon, his injured hand cradled to his chest. Once he was stable, he took his good hand and brushed the snow off his face and beard before looking around to see what was amusing his brothers so. Then he spotted his assailant and suddenly he wasn't all that surprised.

"His mate. Swan's mate for life." It struck the Musketeers that of all of them, Athos would be the one to get attacked by a swan because of true love. The slightly smaller swan sidled over to where her mate was and made a soft snorting sound that, somehow, seemed romantic and comforting.

Athos sat on the cold, hard ground, blood running down his injured palm on to his arm, hating himself, this mission, and the King.

D'Atagnan, the farmer, thought about the situation they found themselves in. "If all these swans are mated, then if we capture one half of the pair, would the other willingly follow along? Like this one defending her mate?"

Athos thought over what the lad had said and it made sense. If it succeeded, it would cut their work in half. As Athos was pondering, Aramis came over to his side and helped him to his feet before seizing his left hand to exam the injured palm. "Nice neat cut," he commented as he studied the skin.

"I always keep my knives sharp," Athos informed him with a hint of pride seeping through.

"I don't think it is deep enough to have damaged any tendons or nerves, though it is going to be bothersome and sore for a while. I'm more concerned about what infections might be getting into it from this environment and that bird." Aramis knew that birds could be the carriers of diseases. "You don't have any alcohol on you?" The look Athos gave him said it all. "Of course not, the one time it would be useful."

While Aramis did have a needle and thread in his inner pocket, he wasn't going to sew up the wound out here. He did need something to wrap the hand in and he debated what to use. Athos had a scarf but it was serving a useful purpose in keeping the Musketeer warmer. The same with Porthos' handkerchief. D'Artaganan had nothing so it came down to the one item they could part with.

Aramis walked over to where Athos' main gauche lay in the snow, picked it up, and then unwound a length of his blue sash before hacking it off. Athos felt guilty as he watched his brother destroy his precious possession.

"Stop it, Athos," Aramis commanded as he walked back over to where Athos stood. "I can hear your guilt from here. It was my choice. I can get a new sash. You can't get a new hand." Gently, he wrapped the cloth around the swordsman's hand then told him to put his glove on carefully to protect it.

"Does it hurt a lot?" d'Artaganan asked, as Athos struggled to get his glove on.

"It's fine," Athos ground out between his clenched teeth as he finally got the glove over the bulky bandage.

"I was thinking," Porthos said from where he still sat on the ground with one swan in his arms and another standing next to him quietly. "If they need so much room to take off, maybe we could clip their wings after we get them to the King's pond."

"What about crossing the river? That would be enough space for them to take off," Aramis reminded his friend.

"Yea," Porthos replied thoughtfully, "but if we had their mate would they choose to stay?"

"That is a sound idea, Porthos. You are becoming quite the tactician," Athos complimented the streetfighter.

Because his hand was aching between the cut and the cold weather, Athos handed the small coil of rope to d'Artagnan, followed by his main gauche, and instructed the Gascon to cut four pieces, then form a loop at the end that was large enough to fit over a swan's head. When the ropes were done, each Musketeer took a length.

"So how do we tell who's a couple?" Aramis joshed as they looked at the dozen swans in the clearing. It had to be the largest bevy of swans any of the Musketeers had ever seen.

"Trial and error I guess," the ex-farmer declared as he waded into the bevy of swans and selected one. It was challenging trying to toss the loop around one of their necks. Some ran away, some tried to attack and overall it was pure chaos.

Athos took a loop of rope, walked over to where Porthos was still holding the swan with the clipped wing feathers and dropped the coil over the swan's head. While Porthos slowly released the bird, Athos tightened his grip on the rope in his right hand and braced himself, unsure what the bird would do. The swan shook its neck to rid itself of the rope but to no avail. Then it snapped at the rope a few times, again with no discernable results. It turned its beady black eyes on Athos, but didn't try to charge him. Finally, it turned its back on the Musketeer and simply started to walk away, until it hit the end of the rope. When the swan felt the light jerk on its neck, it made an odd snorting sound that sounded like pure frustration, then stopped and stood with its head hanging down. Its mate came over and stood faithfully by the male swan's side.

Porthos, knowing that their leader was injured, took another loop of rope and waded into the bevy to capture another swan. The Gascon was the first to get his loop over the head of a swan followed closely by Aramis. To try to prove their theory, d'Artagnan slowly led, trying not to drag, his swan from the bevy to see if another would follow. And one did! Unfortunately, it was the one already on Aramis' leash. The two men began to argue as to who should release their swan.

In the meantime, Porthos wrangled his swan and led it away from the group, but no other swan followed. It made the larger Musketeer sad to think his swan had no living partner, rather like him. Athos saw the hint of sadness in his friend's face. While he was resigned to the fact he'd never fall in love again, he knew Porthos harbored secret thoughts of a wife and family someday.

"We only need seven swans," Athos said as he walked over to where Porthos stood with his lonely swan and took it from him, handing him the rope he was holding. "So this works well."

Porthos gave a short nod, but Athos could still see the dismay in his friend's eyes, so he added, "The swans' lives are not indicators of our own, Porthos." The single swan, whose rope was now in Athos' hand, looked up at the Musketeer, almost as if they did have a kinship of some sort.

The other two Musketeers finally stopped arguing and d'Artagnan released the loop from his swan's neck who immediately went running to stand by Aramis' swan. With a bit of a swagger, Aramis strolled with his swan over to where Athos and Porthos stood. A quick glance at his brother's face told him something was going on, but the look in Athos' eyes also warned him not to ask, so he turned to watch d'Artagnan instead.

"Do hurry up, d'Artagnan," Aramis called out across the grove. "It is getting colder and we should be heading back."

The Gascon muttered some words, best left unheard, under his breath as he trooped about trying to snag another swan. It was like the birds had suddenly read the rules of the game and did everything in their power to avoid him.

"You could go help him," Athos suggested mildly as he unconsciously held his throbbing hand to his chest, something that wasn't lost to the keen eyes of the medic.

"Where's the fun in that?" Aramis replied, though he did hand his rope to Porthos and went over to help the Gascon. He thought the sooner they got their leader home and took care of that injury the better. "Here d'Artagnan, let me show you how it is done."

Between the two of them they got a swan, luckily part of a couple, leashed and soon the four musketeers, four leashed swans and three tag-a-longs were on their way back to the river's edge. They changed up their order for the trip back, this time with Aramis taking the lead, Athos in the middle, d'Artagnan and Porthos as the anchor. Athos didn't argue his demotion, feeling his injury and the cold were muddling his wits and it seemed safer to have the eagle-eyed sharpshooter choosing the path back.

Tying themselves together with the prerequisite slack in between them, they headed back onto the ice. The wind was still brisk, but not so strong as to be troubling . What was more of an issue was walking with a somewhat recalcitrant swan in tow. To give the birds their due, they did seem to be able to walk fairly well on the slippery surface, more so than their human counterparts. Porthos took his usual nose dive which wasn't totally unexpected, though the swan that was with him seemed to take a personal affront at the fall, walking over and snorting at him as he struggled to regain his feet.

Halfway back, there was an ominous cracking noise and the four Musketeers immediately stood absolutely still, trying to determine the source of the sound. Aramis' keen eyes scanned the smooth surface around him and he realized he was on a darker colored section of ice. Athos, who was twenty feet behind him saw the same condition and knew they were in trouble. Ice, when it has thinned and refrozen often is darker in color. As they were in the middle of the Seine, where the current would still be flowing under the ice, weakening it, it meant they were in serious trouble. Small fractures in the ice were already forming.

"Aramis, down!" Athos yelled to his brother as he followed his own advice, dropping to the cold surface and spreading his weight more evenly across the rupturing ice.

The marksman swiftly dropped to his stomach, but it was too late as the ice spilt and his body dropped into the freezing water. Fortunately, the sturdy branch he had been carrying, as Athos had, to test the ice, wedged itself across the opening in the ice and he was able to hang on to it to keep his head above water.

The swans, whose rope Aramis had released, stood a few feet away staring at the water in the hole. Cautiously, they waddled forward and slid into the water with the musketeer. They found the situation delightful, to be able to float in the water. Aramis, on the other hand was struggling to keep himself afloat, the water dragging at his clothes and leeching the warmth from his very core.

"Athos, we're gonna pull you and Aramis back towards us." Athos waved a hand to show he understood and he relayed the message on to Aramis, who he hoped heard as he got no response. However, the man was using both hands to stay alive so Athos prayed that was the reason.

Ignoring the pain in his left hand, he wrapped the rope between him and Aramis in both hands, then prepared himself for what was going to be a very unpleasant experience. D'Artagnan and Porthos checked the ice about them and decided it was thick and strong since they were further from the middle of the Seine. The surface of the ice wasn't totally flat and they looked for little ridges to brace their feet against as they got ready to haul their friends to safety. They situated themselves as close together as possible so they could pull hand over hand on the robe, chocked their feet, pulled all the slack out of the rope between them and Athos then gave a mighty pull.

Athos felt the rope around his middle tighten uncomfortably, as he felt himself slide a bit across the ice. Taking up all the slack between him and Aramis, he tried to pull the best he could from his prone position on the ice. Deciding if he was on his back he could leverage his core muscle group better, along with his chest and arms, Athos carefully flipped over on to his back and partially sat up. This allowed him to get much better power and the next series of pulls between him and d'Artagnan and Porthos had Aramis sliding halfway out of the water.

Aramis' swans were joined in the pool of water by the one Athos had been leading as well as the two loose ones trailing d'Artagnan and Porthos; their tied swans were still attached to them. They developed a pattern of two mighty heaves and a quick rest. Slowly, Aramis was being dragged free from the water, though it was agonizingly slow as they'd get him up on the ice, only to have it crack under him and drag him partway into the water again. Aramis was keeping a hand on the branch, using it to help him not go under the ice.

Finally, Aramis totally slid out of the water and towards Athos, who had given such a hefty tug he toppled over onto his back. Seeing Aramis free, d'Artagnan and Porthos gave a mighty pull hoping to pull both men off the thin ice. They were surprised and flung backwards when the rope between them and Athos unexpectedly broke and went slack.

The water that had splashed onto the ice made it even more slippery and Aramis shot across the surface right at Athos. Too late, they realized the folly of the situation as Aramis slammed into Athos. The ice groaned again, cracked open and dumped both men into the Seine. Aramis had the presence of mind to wedge the branch across the opening again, while he used his free hand to grab Athos by the collar of his jacket and haul his head above the water. The swordsman had had the misfortune of falling into the river back first and it took a moment for him to orientate himself as to what direction was up. Aramis' hand was the lifeline that brought him to the surface.

Porthos and d'Artagnan righted themselves and looked at the frayed rope end in their hands, that had a minute ago been attached to Athos. D'Artagnan dropped on to his belly and began wiggling towards the watery grave where his brothers were trapped. However, a swift jerk on his ankle drew him up short.

"No d'Artagnan. That ice ain't gonna hold," Porthos reminded him, pointing to the cracks in the surface. "We have to get the rope back to them, without getting any nearer."

The swan tied to the Gascon's waist chose that moment to tug on its leash, trying to break free and join its mate, which was now swimming in the new hole in the ice.

"The swan. Tie the rope to the swan and maybe it will go join its mate!" d'Artagnan said as he got to his feet and turned to face Porthos.

"Worth a try," Porthos agreed as he gripped the frayed rope and made a loop in the end to slip over the swan's head.

In the water, the two Musketeers no longer could feel their lower extremities, especially Aramis who had been in the frigid water longer. It was hard enough just hanging onto the branch to keep from being sucked into oblivion.

"Next time I'm complaining I'm cold, remind me of this will you," Aramis joked through his chattering teeth.

"Next time," Athos echoed as he tried to shift his arms on the branch to achieve a better hold. His left hand was nearly useless, the good news being it didn't throb anymore, the bad news being he wasn't even sure it was still connected to his body.

Porthos finished the loop, dropped it over the swan's head, then nodded to the lad to drop the leash rope. D'Artagnan shooed the swan towards its mate and the bird took a few tentative steps, then a few more. However, when it felt the weight of the rope it was supposed to drag to the drowning Musketeers pull on its neck, it halted. D'Artagnan picked up a small piece of loose ice and carefully threw it at the fowl, bouncing it near the bird's feet to encourage it to move. Whether impelled by the ice or the call from its mate in the water, the swan decided to start moving once more, dragging the rope along behind.

"Athos! Aramis! The swan was the rope. Get it off his neck and tie it to your rope," Porthos yelled across the ice to the freezing Musketeers. It was frustrating as he couldn't tell if they heard him, yet he dared not get any closer.

However, they must have understood because when the swan slid into the water with its mate, Aramis made the effort to get the rope off its neck. Luckily the watery hole was small so he could remove the rope while still keeping one hand on the branch. Athos did his best to help shove the swan toward Aramis, but his left hand was stiff as a board and he didn't dare let go of the branch with his right.

To Athos, it seemed like Aramis was taking forever to get the loop off the swan's neck and attach it back onto the rope that was still around their waists. He kept trying to assist with his injured hand and Aramis kept telling him to leave it alone. Then, Athos unexpectedly found his mind wandering and he began thinking how nice it would be to simply take a nap. His eyes grew heavy and his good hand, holding onto the branch started to relax. Aramis realized that Athos had gone still and quiet, and he glanced over at this brother and saw him closing his eyes. Recognizing the early signs of hypothermia, Aramis reached over and smacked Athos hard across the face.

"Damn it, Athos. Stay awake!"

The swordsman's eyes snapped open as he tried to reorient himself to what was going on.

"Athos, listen to me. You are bordering on hypothemia. You have to stay alert." Aramis saw his brother nod, but he also saw his eyes starting to droop again. He had to keep the man engaged. "Athos. Why do you think the rope broke last time?" he asked, hoping having a problem to solve would help Athos focus."

With an effort, Athos thought back to when the rope broke. It had happened on the section between him and d'Artagnan, behind his back.

"Was the rope old," Aramis asked, trying to keep Athos alert.

"No. New. Never Used." Something kept nibbling at the edges of his mind. The way it broke, behind his back. Then it all came together in a rush. His main gauche. Recently, he had obtained a new sheath for his knife, but it turned out to be about an inch too short to house the blade, so some of the metal was exposed at the top. He'd already slit a hole in one of his shirts when the material got caught on the exposed edge of the blade. He had meant to get the sheath fixed, but he hadn't yet.

"Damn," Athos moaned. His stupidity had almost cost his brother his life, and still might.

"What?" Arams asked as he gave a final tug to see if his splice would hold.

"My main gauche cut through the rope. This is my fault," Athos moaned, angry at himself for being so careless. He would have severely reamed any Musketeer for not taking good care of his gear. What was his excuse?

Aramis reached over and grabbed Athos by the chin and forced him to look at him. "We all make mistakes, Athos. I need you to stay with me, focus, and get us, all of us, out of here alive." Athos gave him a curt nod when Aramis released his chin

With the rope secured, Aramis waved a hand to the other two Musketeers to indicate they were ready. Slowly, but surely, Porthos and d'Artagnan were able to pull their brothers out of the water to safety. Once they are all on stable ice, they gave a collective sigh of relief, though each realized that the danger wasn't over yet. They still had to make it back to shore, retrieve the horses and get Aramis and Athos warmed up as quickly as possible, for both men were showing signs of hypothermia.

D'Artagnan put an arm under Athos to help support him and Porthos did the same for Aramis, then they slowly made their way across the frozen river once more. They had to detour around the unstable ice which added time to the journey. Both Aramis and Athos were leaning heavily on their companions for support. After what seemed like an eternity, they reached the far shore and were amazed to note that the seven swans for some reason had followed them.

"The sacks. Secure the swans in the sack," Athos managed to croak out when they discovered the swans hadn't deserted them.

"Athos, we need to get you and Aramis back, not worry about some bloody swans," Porthos declared with a hint of anger in his voice.

"Mission," Athos broke free of d'Artagnan's grasp and weakly shuffled to grab a bag off the ground where they had left them. Stumbling towards the single swan that had been with him, he painfully dropped to the snow on his knees and one-handedly tried to shove the bird in the sack.

"Athos, for God's sake," d'Artagnan groaned in frustration as he went over and assisted the Musketeer.

"Mission. Duty," Athos kept repeating as if it were some kind of mantra.

"Alright. I got it," Porthos acknowledged, taking angry strides to where the bags lay on the ground. "D'artagnan and I will bag up the damn birds if you and Aramis will just get on your horses and wrap up in the bedrolls." Jacque, who had saddled the horses that morning, wasn't sure about the length of the mission, so he had strapped each Musketeer's bedroll to his saddle.

While d'Artagnan worked on corralling the swans and placing them in sacks, Porthos got Aramis and Athos mounted and wrapped in the bedrolls. The men were becoming more and more unresponsive, and Porthos decided they would lead Roger and Fidget back to the garrison, not trusting their brothers with the reins.

Awkwardly, d'Artagnan figured out how to safely strap four swans to his horse and three to Porthos, though none of the parties, rider, horse or swan were thrilled with the results. However, the awkward arrangements worked and all made it back to the garrison safely, even if the citizens of Paris were left talking about the oddity they had just seen riding down the street.

The swans were placed in the ex-goose-cage stall and the hypothermic Musketeers were taken to the barracks and a doctor summoned. It was a tense night of slowly warming Aramis and Athos between warm water baths and heated blankets, but both men pulled through without the loss of any fingers, toes, or other body parts. The gash in Athos hand was thoroughly cleaned and stitched, but the Musketeer was so out of it, he didn't even know it was happening. The doctor left a salve to rub into it as it healed to minimize the scar it left behind.

The next day, while the Musketeers were still recovering from their ordeal, Captain Treville and some of the other Musketeers delivered the seven swans to the King's pond, in which the ice had been chopped up so the waterfowl could swim. A number of poor servants now had that task added to their daily routine, keeping the swan pond from freezing. The King was delighted with his latest true love gift, though he did eventually remember to ask about the welfare of the Musketeers who had obtained the swans.

Athos and Aramis spent the next few days recovering, drifting in and out of consciousness. When they were awake, it became their brothers' job to try to get hot, nourishing broth into them. They knew Athos was recovering when he suggested adding wine to the broth, or foregoing the broth entirely for warm spiced wine.

One evening, Treville came to visit them in Aramis' quarters, which was the largest of the rooms and where they had holed up to recover. Treville told them the King was pleased with their work and that his new charges were happily swimming in the pond.

"But Captain, I never got to trim the flight feathers but from one of the birds," Athos confessed though he hated to say anything, preferring that the swans who had saved their lives could take flight and leave, if they so choose.

"Not a problem. Serge knew how to clip their wings. He did it before we delivered the swans." Treville saw a flicker of disappointment cross Athos' normally stoic features. "Sometime wrong, Athos?"

Athos grew uncomfortable and shifted on his bed before averting his gaze to the window. "The swans saved our lives, Captain. Aramis' and mine. If they hadn't brought that rope…"

Treville knew his Lieutenant had more to say, so he patiently waited.

"An animal, with that level of…heart, deserves better than a life of forced captivity," he finally finished, his voice edged with sorrow and anger.

The other three Musketeers, echoed their brother's sentiment.

"Well at the moment, I can assure you the swans seem very content. Every day the King's servants ensure the pond stays free of ice. The King's bird master ensures they are fed and well. The birds seem not to be in the least bit suffering."

The Captain rose, and after patting Aramis and Athos on the shoulder and telling them to rest, he headed for the door. "Oh and if you didn't know, clipped wings eventually grow back and the birds can fly again." With that he left, closing the door behind him.

"So they still have a chance at freedom it they want. I like that," Porthos said contentedly.

"I wonder," Aramis mused as he sipped from the cup of warm broth in his hands, "how many more of these true love quests the King will send us on? What was this? Number seven."

"With our luck it will be an even dozen," Porthos groused.

"Let's hope not," Aramis declared as he placed the soup on the side table and snuggled into the bedcovers. "They are way more exhausting than fighting bad guys."


	8. Chapter 8

**TLQ 8**

"Are you sure your information is accurate?" d'Artagnan questioned for the ninth time. "It seems rather sketchy to me."

With a heroic effort, Athos kept himself from rolling his eyes. "As I have told you, the information is very solid. One of the maidens that will be appearing before the King is in reality an assassin being paid by Spain to kill the King."

"But the spy you questioned didn't know which one?"

Aramis traded a knowing glance with Porthos, who meaningfully cracked his knuckles. "I can assure you we were quite thorough in our questioning. Our informant knew of the plot, but that was all."

It was clear that d'Artagnan was very unhappy about the situation he was being placed in and was looking for any way to get out of it. However, the other three Musketeers were adamant this was the best solution.

"I don't see why it has to be me," the ex-farmer sulked, as he crossed his arms over his chest and dropped into the nearby chair.

Running a hand through his wavy hair, Athos wished he had a nice cup of wine and a hammer. One to ease the headache that was forming and the other to beat some sense into the stubborn Gascon. "Because you fit the part best."

"And we ain't shaving our beards," Porthos unyieldingly stated, running a hand over his thick growth.

"Nor any other part of our bodies," Aramis tacked on for good measure. "You don't even have real facial hair. More like peach fuzz."

"I do so," an indignant d'Artagnan replied. "It just doesn't grow as quickly as yours."

"Or as thick, or as luxurious." Aramis ran a hand over his own well-groomed beard and then smoothed the ends of his moustache. "Women adore facial hair."

"Constance loves me just the way I am," d'Artagnan defended himself once more.

"Smooth and hairless like a baby's behind."

Three of the four Musketeers smirked at Aramis' comparison, the fourth only scowled harder.

"Constance. Why can't we use Constance? She has helped in the past." d'Artagnan smiled triumphantly at his brothers, sure he had just presented a winning idea.

Without hesitation, Athos shook his head. "No. Too dangerous."

"But Athos," d'Artagnan practically whined at having his idea shot down.

"I said, no." Athos' tone and his attitude indicated he would brook no more discussions on the use of Constance for this mission. "You will dress as a woman, join the contingent of maidens vying for the King's approval and shall ferret out which one is really an assassin."

"Besides being the most suited from the feminine angle, you are the only one of us that knows how to milk a cow," Aramis interjected, the voice of reason. "These are dairy farm maidens, experienced in the ways of… dairy things, like cows. Athos and Porthos probably don't even know what a cow looks like, let alone how to milk one."

"Yeah, and what about you? You were raised in the country. I bet you know how to milk a cow," d'Artagnan accused Aramis, who smiled sadly at him.

"Please. Milk a cow? That's women's work," Aramis dismissed that idea with a snort. "Now if you'd like me to brew some honey mead…"

"Bulls have horns, cows don't," Porthos, for some odd reason, decided to add to the already bizarre conversation.

"Both sexes can have horns," the swordsman corrected and when Porthos gave him a quizzical look, he added, "I read it in a book."

"You read a lot," Porthos pointed out and Athos merely shrugged.

"However, I have never milked a cow in my life. We had…servants… for that," Athos said, sounding a bit apologetic as he always did when he talked of his wealthy upbringing.

D'Artagnan tried to bring the conversation back to the germane point, namely he didn't want to dress as a women. "I don't want to do this. This isn't why I became a Musketeer."

Athos' voice dropped into its lowest register and became very smooth and dangerous. "You became a Musketeer to defend your King and Country. You took an oath. Now, you will do your job and protect your King."

"But…"

"Enough," Athos barked, slamming his fist on the table before rising, grabbing his hat and heading for the door. "This is settled. D'Artagnan get into the damn dress." Taking a last look at the Gascon as he strode by, he added, "And shave those three hairs on your chin." The door practically rattled in its frame as Athos slammed it shut.

Aramis felt the need to state the obvious. "I think you have upset our Lieutenant."

"I think it is transference," Porthos declared thoughtfully, which had both brothers staring at him in amazement. "What?"

"Transference?" Aramis questioned Porthos' word choice.

"I can read too you know," the streetfighter defended his honor, though he had actually heard the Captain use the word and had inquired as to its meaning.

"Do tell," Aramis prodded, leaning back in his chair.

"Earlier today I heard Athos and Captain Treville arguing over this mission. Athos was saying this was a terrible idea and there had to be a better way to find this assassin."

"And?" d'Artagnan prompted, hoping against hope there was a way out of this assignment.

Porthos grinned and shook his head, dashing the lad's hopes. "And Captain Treville put Athos in his place quite soundly and told him to carry out the damn mission."

"Bet that went over well," Aramis mockingly joked, knowing how much their leader hated being told no. "Well it does explain the charming mood our Lieutenant has been in this afternoon." Turning his attention to the Gascon, he asked, "D'Artagnan, would you like me to help you get into your garments? I'm quite experienced at getting women out of their clothes, if I do say so myself. I'm sure I could help you get into them. Some of those women's undergarments can be quite tricky."

The ex-farmer looked at the pile of clothes on the bed in his room. "Just where did those come from anyway, and how do you know they will even fit?"

"The lovely Constance assisted in the preparation of your costume," Aramis said off-handedly as if it were no big deal.

"Constance! Constance knows of this!" D'Artagnan's voice squeaked two registers higher.

"That's the voice you should use tonight as part of your disguise," Porthos noted. "The one you're usin' now. Like you just got kicked in the nuts. Or found out the love of your life knows you dress like a woman."

D'Artagnan was beyond speechless for a moment and the medic in Aramis wondered if the lad was going to hyperventilate, though it didn't stop him from adding some more fuel to the fire.

"Oh. And Constance requested you drop by on the way to the palace. She'd like to see you in your finery."

"I'm not doing this," d'Artagnan unintentionally stomped his foot like a petulant child.

Aramis rose from the chair he'd been sitting in and started for the door. "Ok. I'll go inform Athos and the Captain of your decision."

Porthos rose and trailed after Aramis. "Wonder what Treville's punishment will be?"

"Punishment? No, my friend this is more of a 'resign your commission' event," Aramis declared solemnly as he turned the door knob.

"Alright," d'Artagnan wailed, throwing his hands in the air. I'll do it." He picked up one of the items of clothing and shook his head in disgust. "What I do in the name of France."

Porthos returned to his seat and Aramis walked over and clapped a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder. "You are a better man than I… and apparently, a better woman too."

It took more than an hour for d'Artagnan to transform into the new he, or make that she. He did give his face and neck a good shave, and did end up using some powder Constance had supplied to help hide his scruff. At one point, they had a lengthy discussion on whether or not he had shaved down his chest enough, for there were curly patches of hair just below his collar bones. But d'Artagnan said if they put him in a dress cut that low, he would quit the Musketeers and go back to being a farmer. However, the clever Constance had supplied a dress with a very modest neckline and a scarf to cover his masculine Adam's apple.

It turned out Aramis was as good as his claim and was quite useful in helping d'Artagnan get into his costume. Aramis' fingers flew through the intricacies that made-up women's undergarments. He also was skillful in helping the lad achieve a well-formed bosom, though there was a lot of ribald humor on what size to make the artificial breasts. In the end, they decided bigger wasn't better, especially considering the mechanics of trying to keep them perky and upright. They scaled back to a more modest size and had much better results.

The wig was giving the three men a fit when Athos showed up to see how they were progressing. He walked into the room to find the wig sitting askew on d'Artagnan's head and his real hair hanging out in all the wrong places. With a sigh, Athos walked over to the table where all the items Constance had supplied were piled. Rooting around a bit, he picked up a few objects, then waved d'Artagnan to sit.

Yanking the wig off the lad's head, Athos set it on the table and then focused back on d'Artagnan. "It's all about properly securing your real hair, so the wig rests properly on your head."

The Comte took the mesh net and pins Constance had smartly supplied and captured d'Artagnan's real hair in the net and pinned it to the top of his head making sure to catch all the stray pieces. He did this with great efficiency and no sign of embarrassment. While he was doing that, he verbally told Aramis to brush the wig, which had gotten rather messed up with their attempts to place it on d'Artagnan's skull.

Once all the Musketeer's hair was secured, Athos took the wig back from Aramis. He carefully fitted it onto d'Artagnan's head, then used a few strategic hair pins to assure it stayed in place. When he was done, he took a few steps back, placed his hands on his hips and examined his work.

"It'll pass," he declared with confidence.

D'Artagnan looked at his new hair in the hand mirror Aramis supplied him and let out a low whistle. "That was amazing, Athos."

The swordsman felt all the eyes in the room focusing on him. "What?" he grouchily said, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

"How did you know how to do that?" Aramis asked with a touch of astonishment in his tone.

"And don't tell us you read a book," Porthos added, shutting down that avenue of escape.

With a sigh, Athos starting explaining. "The nobility are often known to…imitate… their King."

"In a whiny, toady sort of self-flattering way," Aramis chimed in, then his cheeks turned a shade of pink. "Yes, sorry about that. Most nobles, but not you of course."

Athos wasn't the least bit offended by the marksman's comments and as it happened, whole-heartedly agreed with them. "I was never one to do what was expected of me. In my father's time, many men wore wigs to court because that is what decorum dictated. As a child, I watched the valet prepare and place a wig upon my father's head many a time."

"Did you ever wear one?" Porthos asked out of curiosity.

"Once or twice as a boy. He took me along to learn my place in society. Those trips never went very well."

The awkward pause that followed was thankfully interrupted by a knock on the door and Captain Treville's entrance. The Captain walked over to where d'Artagnan stood and circled him as he critically studied the disguise. "Not bad. Better than I hoped I dare say. We shall ensure the King selects you as one of the finalists."

The startled Musketeer looked at his Captain. "Choose me?"

Treville glanced over at Athos, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. "You didn't brief them yet."

"No. Not all the salient points. I needed to leave for a few minutes before I finished relating the entire plan." It was either leave or knock their heads together for being so irritating, he thought to himself, glossing over the fact the Captain had put him in a bad mood earlier and he was just as much a part of the problem as his three brothers.

The Captain quirked an eyebrow at his Lieutenant, but didn't press any further. It had been a trying day all around, and they still had to get through tonight's events. "In order to assure that the palace has the freshest milk possible for the royal heir, the King is hiring eight new milking maids."

"But Captain. Don't babies typically drink, well you know," Aramis dropped his voice to a whisper, "breast milk from their mother?"

"Or employ wet nurses," d'Artagnan added, thinking back to the time his aunt had helped out a woman in their community when her milk ran dry.

"Sometime they use goat milk to feed orphan babies where I grew up," Porthos chimed in.

The Captain looked over at Athos. "Would you like to add something?"

Athos thought for a second. His mother had used wet nurses for both him and his brother as he recalled. However, he didn't really feel that was germane to this conversation so he said, "No. Thank you."

"Gentlemen, this may come as a surprise to you, but I personally didn't see the need to question my Commander in Chief on his orders. Nor add any useless commentary," he sarcastically added and three sets of eyes looked away, getting the non-too-subtle reprimand. "As I was saying, the King is hiring eight new milking maids. Applicants have been invited, God knows why, to the palace to be personally selected by the King. He shall choose twelve tonight at the reception, then tomorrow they each shall be given a cow to milk and the best eight will be offered positions."

Wisely, none of the Musketeers opened their mouths to voice the commentary running through their heads.

"Athos, Aramis and Porthos will be part of the security guard at this evening's reception. And d'Artagnan, you will be one of the applicants. If our intelligence is sound, one of those maids is really an assassin from Spain and will be looking for an opportunity to kill our King."

D'Artagnan couldn't help himself and blurted out, "Does the King know this? Surely if he knew he'd call this whole thing off."

"About the possible assassin, yes. About you, no. Both the Cardinal and I were unable to convince the King to cancel this folly. He is very determined to carry out this, what is it you have been calling these things?

"True love quests," Athos piped up from the corner. Treville frowned at him causing the Musketeer to shrug. If the shoe fits.

"Yes, well don't let the King hear you calling them that. He is quite serious about these…tasks…he has set you upon," Treville lectured them.

"Actually, Captain. The King used the term true love first when describing all the special things he is doing for his pregnant Queen. Athos just tacked on the word quests," Aramis explained to their Captain, who looked over at Athos.

"It was a weak moment. I was thinking of Don Quixote," the Comte declared with a touch of remorse. "And it stuck."

The Captain shook his head. Don Quixote indeed. "Finish getting ready, d'Artagnan. You'll ride in the wagon…"

"Captain!"

"…like a proper lady. And mind your manners." Treville paused for a moment, sweeping his eyes up and down the Gascon dressed as a woman. "Most likely you will be forced to sleep in the same quarters as the rest of the finalists. Be sure not to embarrass yourself or this regiment."

"Like I could possibly do worse than this," d'Artagnan grumbled as he smoothed his skirts.

Aramis' ears had pricked up at the mention of the sleeping arrangements. "Captain. I have had a change of heart. I'm willing to volunteer to take d'Artagnan's spot since he is so uncomfortable with this assignment."

"You're gonna shave your beard off," Porthos asked skeptically as he turned his head to look at Aramis. "I don't see it."

"You are not thinking of it from the right angle, Porthos. No doubt, the chance to bed with eleven maidens has brought out the chivalrous nature in our Aramis," Athos drawled as he shook his head at the marksman. "Your devotion to the opposite sex never ceases to amaze me."

"Aramis, stand down. This remains d'Artagnan's duty," Captain Treville informed him. "And Athos, Porthos, it is your duty to make sure he," the Captain pointed specifically at Aramis, "doesn't do anything stupid with these maidens that would be an embarrassment to the Musketeers or the King."

"You've gotta be joking, Captain. How are we gonna do that and still have time to keep an eye out for an assassin," Porthos groaned as he glared over at Aramis who had an angelic look on his face.

"We could," Athos said thoughtfully, "knock him out and stuff him in a closet for the duration."

"Athos," the Captain warned with a low growl.

"Or not." Turning serious once more, the Lieutenant said, "We shall see to it that Aramis' behavior is above reproach. After all, how much trouble can one get into patrolling the gardens," Athos deadpanned, though the corner of his mouth was struggling not to tilt upwards.

"You wouldn't, Athos! It like 10 below outside!" Aramis reminded his Lieutenant. "I'll freeze. Worse than being in the river."

Athos merely gave his brother a 'go ahead and try me' stare.

The Captain left the room with Athos on his heels.

"Finish getting…him… ready," Athos instructed before he left. "And pick out a suitable feminine name for him…her… to go by tonight. I'll expect you in the wagon in fifteen minutes, Gentlemen…and Lady," he tossed over his shoulder as he shut the door.

The hopeful milk maidens and their guardians were milling about the King's reception hall, many feeling quite awkward about being in such grand surroundings. And d'Artagnan, or Barbe as he was now known, felt awkward too; not being in the palace, but being in women's clothes. So, in a funny way, he did have something in common with the rest of the maidens.

One small tactical error on the Musketeers part was not having realized that the maidens would come with chaperones. What father was going to send his maiden daughter to Paris without some sort of guardian? Some maidens were there with both their parents, some with just their fathers and others with various uncles, aunts or cousins.

When the Musketeers realized their oversight they hastily set about to rectify the error. The best idea they came up with was to introduce Barbe as Treville's niece from Gascony, temporarily in his custody. Since the Cardinal was in on the whole deal, he didn't do more than raise an eyebrow at the Captain when he introduced his 'niece' to the King. After they had moved away, the King remarked to the Cardinal that Gascon women seemed somewhat masculine and the prelate assured him it was due to country air, clean living and chores.

D'Artagnan was doing his best to blend in with the other girls, which was hard given his height. There was only one other maid who was anywhere near as tall as he, so d'Artagnan tried to stand next to her as much as possible, and slouch. At one point Aramis drifted by, slapped him when no one was looking and told him not to slouch, it wasn't lady-like. The Gascon moved from group to group, trying to pick up an anything unusual, though he doubted a trained assassin would be that easy to spot.

The other three Musketeers kept a tight circle around their King, so much so that he remarked to Treville that his guards seemed very clingy. Treville assured him that it was simply for his own safety, but the King had merely laughed at the thought of being endangered by a bunch of milk maidens.

Finally, the King made his twelve selections, though he and the Cardinal had a hushed conversation just before he made the announcement.

"I don't care if she is Treville's niece, she is huge. Taller than me!" the King exclaimed with revulsion.

"Better able to handle the cows, Sire."

Louis looked up at him with disbelief. "Are cows that dangerous, Cardinal? I always thought they were rather gentle-looking as they grazed in the fields."

"Oh cows can be quite vicious, your Majesty. Some even have horns," the Cardinal hissed as if they could be the devil incarnate.

"Still, she isn't very attractive. I think she has a faint moustache."

"But her hands, Sire. Look at those magnificently long, strong fingers. Imagine them on the udder of the cow, pulling forth all that delicious milk." The Cardinal drew a pretty picture with his melodic voice. "And this is about getting milk to make delicious items for your Queen and heir. You remember how much your Majesty likes the ice cream his mother used to serve. That takes milk, lots of milk."

"Well, there is that," the King said looking over at Barbe's fingers. "Fine, she can be part of the final twelve."

"Your Majesty is both a gracious and shrewd man," the Cardinal declared with a small bow.

"I am, aren't I," the King preened.

After the twelve were announced, the King retired and the maids and their guardians were shown to their rooms for the night. d'Artagnan was somehow relieved that the other tall maiden, whose name was Eva, was also among the ones selected. As they moved through the palace to the rooms assigned to them, d'Artagnan felt someone bump in to him and heard the word, "Honor," hissed in his ear. When he looked up he saw Athos giving a small bow of apology. A number of the maidens smiled at the handsome Musketeer as he straightened, but Athos' face remained neutral.

"What a handsome Musketeer," one maid cooed, and a number of the other girls giggled.

"All the Musketeers at the party were handsome," another maid observed. "And that tall dark one. So fierce looking. He nearly made me faint just looking at him."

"You know what they say about men like him in bed," another girl started and d'Artagnan hastily moved away before he began to blush. These maids were as bad as the soldiers swapping tales about women. Who knew women did the same about men.

As the King expected the final eight milking maids to work and live together, his staff had arranged for two rooms, one for the maidens and one for their guardians. Before long, d'Artagnan found himself surround by females in various states of undress and he did his best to avert his eyes and control any improper thoughts.

He took off the shoes he had been wearing, which were several sizes too small and killing his feet, but didn't remove another speck of clothing before climbing into one of the single beds and pulling the covers up to his chin. When one of the girls asked why he didn't undress, he told her he forgot to bring his night clothes, silly him.

One by one the women climbed into bed, but they talked long into the night about subjects at times that made d'Artagnan blush in the darkness. By the time they all fell asleep, he felt that if he was ever to marry and have daughters, he had just been well prepared.

D'Artagnan stayed awake all night, watching to see of any of the maidens would try to sneak out of their beds. He was rewarded in the early morning hours, when a shadow moved across the room to the door. Quietly, the Gascon followed into the dimly lit hallway where he got his first look at the person. It was Eva, the other overly tall milk maid. The Musketeer suddenly wondered if Eva might also be a male in disguise.

Eva moved through the palace quickly and skillfully; obviously, this was not her first time at doing something like this. She managed to evade the Red Guards with ease, though she didn't pick up the second shadow that was now on her trail, in addition to d'Artagnan. They trailed her to the King's apartments, and when it was clear she wasn't lost or on some odd midnight stroll, d'Artagnan stepped out of the shadows and made his presence known.

"Halt right there," the Musketeer called out and Eva stopped and slowly turned.

When she saw it was 'Barbe,' she suddenly was all smiles. "Oh thank goodness it is you, Barbe. I was headed for the toilet and I got so turned around."

"Well you are in the King's private area," d'Artagnan informed her.

"Oh, I am quite lost then. Can you show me the way back?" Eva begged as she moved closer. "I'd hate to be spotted by the guards where I don't belong."

"Too late for that, Madame," Athos declared as he stepped out of the shadows.

Eva's hands, which had been hidden in her skirt, suddenly became visible, with a pistol in one and a knife in the other. She quickly flung herself at the unsuspecting Musketeer and knocked him to the ground while embedding the knife she was carrying in his shoulder. As she went to smack Athos in the head with the grip of her pistol, she found herself being yanked backwards, so the blow to Athos' skull was only glancing. Still it was enough to daze Athos, who lay still on the ground.

D'Artagnan slammed Eva's hand into the leg of a nearby table, causing her to drop the pistol. The Gascon had strapped a knife to his calf, but the voluminous skirts swirling about his legs made it impossible for him to grab it . So he and Eva began wrestling on the floor. It soon became apparent to both that neither of them were women, that they were fairly well matched in skills, and that both were similarly hampered by their dresses.

Athos slowly began to regain his wits and managed shakily to sit up with his back against the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Porthos and Aramis hurrying down the hallway, with that instinctual knowledge that told them when their brothers were in trouble. Aramis immediately ran to Athos' side and squatted next to him while Porthos spotted the pistol on the floor, picked it up and then trained his own pistol on the wrestling pseudo-women.

"Are they armed?" he asked Athos, wondering how to best breakup the fight.

"No. The knife is in my shoulder and you are in possession of the pistol," Athos said with a hint of amusement that Aramis didn't find all that funny.

"That knife is no joking matter," he scolded his brother.

Athos reached up with his good hand and placed it on Aramis' shoulder. "Aramis, trust me, I have been stabbed many times. This is not bad and hit nothing."

Still not willing to take Athos' assessment at face value, Aramis began to try to undo his doublet, but the swordsman lightly pushed him aside. "Aramis, there is no immediate danger I swear to you, and I'd like to see the outcome of the fight. It is not too often you see two men, dressed as women, wrestling."

That made Aramis sit back on his heels and look over at the tussling men.

Porthos, who also heard Athos' comment, stared. "Both men?"

"Yes, d'Artagnan and Eva, our assassin, who is not so much an Eva as an Evan," Athos said drily.

"Shouldn't Porthos break up the fight?" Aramis questioned Athos, who seemed content to sit there and let things unfold.

"No. This is good practice. The King is in no danger, since we moved him and the Queen to another part of the palace in secret earlier."

"Smart thinking," Aramis praised Athos, who gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

The three Musketeers lapsed into silence as they watched the two men fight, which at times was comical given the unfamiliar nature of the garments they each wore. Finally, however, d'Artagnan got the upper hand and subdued 'Eva'.

Porthos moved over and took the subdued assailant from d'Artagnan and walked him down the hall to where four Red Guards waited to haul him off to prison. Then he walked back and joined his brothers. By now, Athos had made his way to his feet and Aramis had gotten him to take off his coat so he could examine the wound. D'Artagnan watched with worry, but for once the swordsman was telling the truth. It wasn't a bad slash. Some stiches and a week or so of rest would set things right. Aramis wrapped a temporary bandage around it.

The four Musketeers made their way back through the palace to where Treville was guarding the King and reported that all was safe. Aramis assured him Athos was fit to ride back to the garrison and Treville released them from duty.

As they headed for the stables, d'Artagnan asked which one of them had brought him a change of clothes and his horse since he had arrived in a wagon. The brothers looked at each other then him and shrugged.

"Ah, we forgot," Aramis declared in a voice that sounded more mirthful than apologetic. "But you can ride side-saddle with me. I'll be sure you don't fall off, Madame."

"Mademoiselle to you," d'Artagnan retorted with a swish of his skirt and a fling of his long-haired wig which as a testament to Athos' skill had stayed in place.

When they got to their horses, Athos took the reins from the palace stable boy and with a grunt, heaved himself into the saddle.

"Maybe someone should ride with Athos. Make sure he doesn't faint. Then I can ride their horse," d'Artagnan suggested. "I mean I'd ride with him but in a dress it might be awkward and if he started to fall…"

"No one is riding with me," Athos stated in a tone that said 'end of conversation.'

"Just hike up your skirts and get on behind Aramis," Porthos directed d'Artagnan. He was tired, hungry and just wanted to get back to the garrison.

"Wonder who will win?" Aramis mused as he watched the Gascon struggle to shove his skirts high enough to get on the horse. Being a gentleman, he took his foot out of the stirrup and reached down a hand to assist.

"Win what?" Porthos responded as he watched the lad mount and then battle to swing his leg over the horse's back. His skirt kept getting caught. Finally, d'Artagnan settled on Fidget's back.

"The milk maid contest," Aramis said as he pressed his heels to his horse's side, "With d'Artagnan and the assassin out of the picture, that is two less competing for the final eight slots. Let's hope the King enjoys his eight milking maids."

Athos tuned out the rest of his brothers' chattering, concentrating on staying on top of Roger and awake. The cold weather was making his headache worse and the blood loss was making him slightly woozy. He hoped the King's true love quests would come to an end soon. Birds, rings, milk maids… what could possibly come next?


	9. Chapter 9

**TLQ 9**

Word had reached the King's ear of a troop of Italian ballet dancers who were said to be spectacularly mesmerizing. Immediately, he sent a courier to make arrangements for the company to come to Paris and dance for his one and only true love, the Queen. His Majesty promised them a rich reward as well as a Musketeer escort.

Ever since the news of the Queen's condition had been made known, Louis doted Anne, plying her with his undivided attention and somewhat eclectic gifts. He conveniently forgot all the times he had complained about his Queen being dull and boring. As the mother of his child and the heir to France she now could do no wrong. The Queen was finding all this new-found attention a bit challenging.

The four Musketeers were sent to meet the dancers at an inn near the border and to escort the troop back to Paris. The weather was still very cold, but the roads around Paris were in good condition so they made respectable time. The horses were feeling frisky and the Musketeers let them have their heads for a few refreshing short stretches of galloping. The four brothers were also in good spirts, happy to be out of Paris, away from the crowds that had descended upon the city for the holidays.

It was a four-day journey to the inn, and on the second day a powerful snowstorm swept the countryside, forcing the four Musketeers to hole up in an inn for a day. The Inseparables were happy they had made it to the tavern before the storm hit for it would have been miserable, if not deadly, being caught in the woods.

Aramis was keeping a close eye on Athos to make sure the swordsman wasn't overtaxing himself. The self-appointed medic of the group had argued for Athos to stay behind, concerned if he was truly recovered from the knife gash in his shoulder. While the stab wound wasn't all that bad, regrettably it had developed an infection that had laid Athos out for almost a week. Aramis had been very concerned when he couldn't seem to turn the tide on the raging infection. But finally, after five days of worry and misery for everyone, Athos took a turn for the better and began rapidly to recover.

However, even though Athos swore he was fine, Aramis' sharp eyes could still see weakness in the Comte's left arm and an overall fatigue. One week later, when this assignment came up, Aramis had maintained Athos should stay behind and Athos vehemently had opposed the idea. The Captain had made the final call and allowed Athos to go, with the caveat that he had to follow Aramis' guidance, which everyone knew wasn't going to work out well.

To take pressure off the shoulder wound, Aramis insisted that Athos keep his left arm in a sling, which the swordsman did, except for when he didn't, which was mostly. When he was riding, or cleaning his weapons, or doing any task that required the use of his left hand, Athos conveniently forgot to wear the sling. When it came time to set up camp, make a fire, fetch wood, or groom the horses, Athos' arm would magically reappear in the sling. Aramis got to the point that he wasn't sure when Athos was faking it, which was exactly what the swordsman wanted to occur. It was probably childish of him, but Aramis' constant cossetting drove him to distraction. Growing up, no one had nurtured him that much and he didn't see any reason to change that as an adult.

When they got back on the road after the storm, Athos resumed his on-again off-again charade with the sling. That night, when they went to set up camp, Athos offered to gather some firewood. Aramis, who was annoyed that Athos had spent most of the ride with his left arm out of the sling, told him to go ahead. The swordsman collected the required firewood, but Aramis did note it took him longer than usual and he was carrying it in a somewhat awkward manner. Later, when they were eating dinner, Aramis noted the swordsman didn't use his left arm at all, not even when it would have been useful. Rather, he kept it in his lap, pressed near his abdomen, and very still. Aramis wondered if the Musketeer, who he knew was deliberating messing with him, had gotten caught in his own trap and actually over-used his arm. The following morning Athos' left arm was back in the sling, at least for a while, and Aramis counted that as a victory.

Two days later, they arrived at the inn where they were to rendezvous with the troop of performers that the King wanted for his holiday soiree in honor of the Queen. Entering the inn, the Musketeers announced who they were and made inquiry of the proprietor if the dancers had arrived. If the scowl and grumpy attitude that overtook the man was any indication, it would seem the performers had arrived and there was some issue.

"Only because they were women, you understand, I did it. If they had been men, they would have been out on their asses, camping in the snow. I'm running a business here," he complained as he polished a filthy glass with an even filthier rag.

"I'm sure you are a good businessman, Monsieur. If you would be so kind as to direct us to where we can find the troop of dancers?" Athos politely asked with his best lord of the manor voice and manners.

The innkeeper kept on talking as if Athos hadn't just made a polite inquiry. "They ride up here in those wagons with a phony-sounding story about bandits and a performance for the King of France..."

"They have been invited by the King to perform at the palace," d'Artagnan inserted into the man's verbal stream of consciousness.

"…why the King would want foreign women from some Godforsaken country dancing for him is beyond me."

"They are from Italy, a quite respectable country I have been told," d'Artagnan interjected once more.

The innkeeper took a breath then rambled on, though apparently he did hear what d'Artagnan had said. "I'm glad the King part is true, because they've got to pay their bill somehow seeing they claim they were attacked and their money stolen."

Trying to steer the conversation, if at all possible, back to the salient points, Athos asked with a touch of annoyance, "You said before they were attacked. When, where and by whom?"

"How the hell would I know," the owner groused as he slammed the glass down on the wooden bar's top. "Crazy, they all are, especially the short, old one. Dancers," he snorted "I try to interact with them as little as possible. Like I said, if it weren't winter and they weren't, supposedly, women, I'd turn them out on their ears."

"Those are quite strong words," Aramis admonished with a touch of ire. "Surely you must feel some compassion for them being robbed and alone in a strange country."

"Foreigners should stay where they belong and leave the good citizens of France in peace," the innkeeper declared empathically as he picked up another glass and began wiping it out.

"Have these foreigners, as you call them, caused you a grievance?" Athos was puzzled, trying to figure out if there was a real issue here or if the innkeeper was simply being an ass.

"Other than they are staying in my barn for free and annoying my paying guests with their foreignness, hell no. It's all good," the man answered sarcastically, setting another glass on the bar.

"They are staying in the barn?" Aramis echoed, not quite sure if he had heard correctly.

"Surely you don't except me to let them stay in the inn? How was I to know if they were telling the truth, that King's Musketeers were going to meet them. If you hadn't shown up I wouldn't get paid now would I," he said with a head shake.

"And you still may not," Aramis muttered under his breath.

"I'm not a charity. Let them go to the Church if they want that. Let's see how the Church greets a bunch of foreign dancers."

"I believe the word that has forsaken your vocabulary is compassion. 'Do not merely look out for your own personal interests, but also for the interests of others.' Philippians 2:4," Aramis quoted as he reached for his crucifix that he always wore.

"I thought you were King's Musketeers, not priests," the proprietor said with a look of semi-concealed disgust. Apparently, he didn't see eye-to-eye with the Church either.

With a decisive head nod to his brothers, Athos announced, "We shall go to the barn. But be warned. If we find you have in any way harmed the King's performers, our next conversation with you shan't be as pleasant."

The cold, dark look in Athos' green eyes and the low warning in his voice shook up the innkeeper who called after the departing Musketeers, "I didn't do anything to them. I let them stay in my barn. What more do you expect?"

"Quite an ass, isn't he," Aramis said pleasantly as they walked through the courtyard to the large barn which sat cattycorner to the main inn.

The barn door was shut tight so d'Artagnan walked up to it, slid the right-hand door open and was greeted by an older woman, who barely came up to his chest, pointing a deadly-looking musket at him.

"Whoa," he said raising his hands and taking a step backwards.

The other three Musketeers placed their hands on their weapons, but didn't draw them. Athos, took a step in front of his brothers and moved his hands into what he hoped would be perceived as a non-threatening position.

"Madame, I am Athos of the King's Musketeers." Giving a nod to each of his brothers as he said their names, he continued. "This is d'Artagnan, Porthos, and Aramis. We have been sent by the King to escort you safely to Paris."

The diminutive woman studied him with her grey eyes, which were nearly the same color as her steel grey hair, which was severely pulled into a bun. For some reason, she reminded Athos of some of his stricter governesses and it made him want make sure his posture was proper.

"You are the King's Musketeers?" she repeated in French, with a strong Italian accent.

"Yes, sent to escort you safely back to Paris to perform for his Majesty," Athos repeated, keeping his voice even and courtly.

Lowering the musket, she turned and walked back into the barn, implying that she fully expected them to follow her.

"This is going to be interesting," Aramis declared as he brushed past Porthos and d'Artagnan to follow Athos and the woman.

Once inside the first thing they noticed was the two, large, covered wagons in the center of the barn. Scattered around the remaining open floor space were nine lithe, but muscular women, each a beauty in her own right and a man with a violin. The dancers were scantily dressed, for both the weather and their surroundings, being encased in tight fitting stockings and short dresses that hid little, but offered them freedom of movement. The four Musketeers averted their eyes from them lest it appear they were being improper.

The older woman, seeing the Musketeers' discomfort simply chortled. "Ah Messieurs, I see our practice costumes are a bit too risqué. Have no fear, for the King's performance we shall be suitability attired as is expected."

Warming to her subject, the passion of ballet, she called out a series of commands to the ladies who, in turn, performed a series of movements. The Musketeers were all taken by the beauty and grace of the actions as the dancers seemed to float and spin across the straw-covered barn floor in an effortless manner.

"I think I'm in love, nine times over," Aramis sighed as he longingly gazed upon the lovely dancers. Both the old woman and Athos glared at him in warning, and he threw his hands in the air and added, "But of course, I shall simply admire from afar and keep council to myself."

Clapping her hands sharply, she issued an order in Italian that had the girls scampering off to the wagons. Turning her attention back to the Musketeers she stated, "That is enough rehearsal for the day."

It was rather a strange barn, as barns go, with a hearth and fireplace at the very far end of it, away from the livestock stalls. There was a scattering benches and tables near the hearth as well as bunks built into one wall. Perhaps the landlord put more than foreign women in his barn when his inn was full.

It was over to one of the long tables that the woman led them, gesturing for them to sit. Athos jarred his left elbow on the table's edge as he sat and winced as the pain radiated through his shoulder. Aramis sighed and gave a pointed look to the sling, which Athos had shoved into his pocket earlier, before arriving at the inn.

Once they were all settled, Athos began questioning the woman. "The innkeeper said you were attacked on your way here?"

Sorrow etched itself on her already aged-lined face. "We had three wagons, originally. We, as you probably are aware, are from Italy. But we travel all about the continent performing in the courts of the nobility."

Athos gave a little nod, having once seen some of this dance style, ballet they called it, at the court in a foreign nation with which his father had business relationships. Though the dancing was like nothing he had ever seen, his real interest on that trip had been more in the soldiers that made up the royal guard of the palace they visited and in the fortified battlements of the castle.

"A terrible storm came up and our wagons got separated in the blizzard. Those of us in these two wagons decided to wait out the storm in the lee of some sheltering trees we were fortunate to find. We simply huddled together as a group under all our blankets and prayed for God's deliverance."

The old woman let out a sigh that was so long and so deep, it must have started at her very toes and stretched the top of her petite head. "When the sun finally came out and the snow melted enough, we took to the road again in search of our third wagon. A few hours later, we came upon it, lying on its side, the axel broken, the horses gone. The members of our troop were scattered about the snowy ground, dead. We surmised those that hadn't died immediately of their wounds froze later in the storm. Anything of value, which was little, was taken. We mourned and buried our dead, then continued on here, where we were greeted with skepticism and fear by the innkeeper. I know performers aren't well thought of, but we are nothing more than honest folks trying to earn a living."

"There are some," Aramis said thoughtfully, "within certain religious fractions that believe that dancing is akin to devil worship."

Like a rooster about to crow, the woman threw out her chest and began adamantly to talk, with sweeping gestures of her hands. "I am a good Italian Catholic, Monsieur and I believe in God, the Sainted Mother Mary, and Jesus who came to save us all. Our blessed Father teaches there is 'A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance. We have wept many times over as we mourned our dead and the little laughter we allow ourselves comes from the joy of the dance."

Aramis bowed his head. "I meant no disrespect. I'm of the belief that God's wondrousness can be celebrated through many means. If the little bit of dance we saw is an indication of your repertoire, then I can't see how it wouldn't glorify God."

She wagged an elegant, though crooked-with-age finger at the marksman. "You are a silver-tongued devil and more likely to lead to the corruption of one's morals than our dance I think."

"She's got you pegged right," Porthos smirked as he bumped his brother on the arm.

Athos looked over at the nine women, who had emerged from the wagon dressed more modestly. "You say you lost a number of your dancers to the bandits and for that I am sorry. We can try to go back and see if we can trace them, but I must tell you, it will probably be a fool's errand."

"And it won't bring back our dead," she replied with a soft sigh.

Athos nodded his head in sympathy. He struggled with how to put his next question without seeming like a total cad and simply gave up and was direct, as was his nature. "With your losses, are you still able perform for their Majesties? I am sure they would understand if you cannot." Actually, he wasn't so sure about that last part. The King was rather fickle and moody these days. Somedays one wondered if it was he who was experiencing the symptoms of pregnancy and not the Queen.

The woman let her eyes wander to the women who were going about preparing a simple meal. "I ask myself the same, knowing the answer can only be yes. Athos," she said fixing her steel grey eyes on him, "this is our life. The only one we know. Many of these girls have no place left to go for their families have turned them out for their sin of dancing. We are a family unto ourselves and I shall protect my girls with my last breath."

With pride, she beamed at her girls across the expanse of the barn. "Eventually, I'm sure I will be able to find more outcasts to join our troop. Until then, we will persevere, adapt and move onward."

The four Musketeers understood this woman and her dancers. One could say Captain Treville and the regiment were in some ways similar, at least in the form of a brotherhood and a family of misfits. What do a Comte, a child from the Court of Miracles, a religious libertine and a farmer all have in common? A brotherhood of love, stronger than blood.

"I have no doubt you will come up with a wonderful performance to please the King," d'Artagnan said sincerely. "And if there is any way we can help," he added leaving the sentence open ended.

Rising, the women declared, "First let us sup. Then we will plan. Hungry bodies make dull minds."

"I like her," Porthos stated gleefully, always ready to eat. Growing up poor without ever having enough food made him very conscious of where his next meal was coming from to this day.

Athos also rose from the table. "Madame. We shall not impose upon you or your supplies. We will go to the innkeeper and have him produce a meal to feed all of us and provide rooms for you and your dancers."

The woman laid a kind hand on his left arm and Athos did his best not to flinch. "You are a gentleman and a warrior, Athos. But don't make a battle where none needs to be. The innkeeper has made his feeling towards us quite clear. We need no further aggravation. We shall stay here, eat our meal, and keep the peace as we have the last few nights while we awaited your arrival."

Athos ducked his head in acknowledgement, feeling almost as if his own Captain had gently scolded him for an unsound decision. "As you wish, Madame." He raised his head and his green eyes sought her grey ones. "You are indeed a wise woman. If it is not an imposition, we will dine with you. But I insist you let us bring some food to the table too." Athos nodded to Porthos. "You and I shall go chat with our friend the innkeeper. D'Artagnan, Aramis, stable the horses."

The woman watched as Athos and Porthos strode in a meaningful manner out the barn door. She turned to Aramis and inquired, "Is he going to do something rash?"

Aramis couldn't help laughing at that thought. "Athos doesn't do rash. He does Comte, with a side of intimidation. And Porthos, he is all for show, but what a wonderful show it is. Have no worries, our Athos won't have to resort to violence, well not real violence."

Aramis excused himself to help d'Artagnan with the horses. When the two Musketeers had them bedded down for the night, they stacked their saddlebags and bedrolls by the barn doors before joining the women by the hearth, where they were using the fire to make a meal.

"Madame, can we be of assistance?" d'Artagnan politely asked as they joined the group.

"Some more wood for the fire would be of use. It can get chilly in the small hours of the night. And please, I'm Betta. And this is Bella, Livia, Perina, Rosa, Justina, Orsa, Corona, Diana, and Zanetta. The man in the corner is Petro, a mute who plays the violin with the grace of God." She laughed at the look on the Musketeers' faces as they tried to absorb all the names. "Don't worry. It will come with time."

At that moment, the barn door slid open, letting in a blast of cold air and two Musketeers with their arms full. Aramis didn't realize he was scowling, until Betta stared up at him and said, "You are not pleased they have returned with food? Do you fear reprisal from the innkeeper?"

"What? Oh no, nothing like that," he said distractedly, watching the two Musketeers make their way across the barn's floor.

"But there is something in your brother's behavior that is troubling you," she observed insightfully.

He diverted his eyes from Porthos and Athos, who were putting baskets of food and bottles of drink on the table and looked down at the diminutive woman standing next to him. "You call us brothers. Why?"

"Are you not a brotherhood? The Musketeers. Elite guards of the King? Even outside of your native France the Musketeers are not unknown. Honorable men, it is said."

Aramis nodded along with her commentary. "Yes, that is all true. But…" he prompted.

"And it is obvious to all who choose to see that you four are somehow bonded to each other. I suspect closer than family, like my girls and I are bonded. I would not want to cross any of you, for I believe to cross one is to cross all."

"You see a lot, Madame Betta," Aramis sincerely admitted. "There is nothing I won't do for them."

"Or they for you. So what is troubling you. Shall I perhaps guess?"

"You have been very perceptive so far. What else do you know, oh wise woman," he asked with a slight mock bow.

"Athos, the one you look to as your leader, though I'm not sure he is comfortable in that role. He is injured." She held up a hand to forestall his questions. "I'm the healer of this troop. I know how to spot an injury. He is favoring his left arm, though it is the shoulder I believe from where the issue arises. He carries a sling, shoved into his pocket. I suspect there is a disagreement on its usage," she said with a laugh. "My girls are no better, I assure you."

"Yes. He was stabbed in the shoulder just shy of four weeks ago. The wound wasn't bad, but the infection that followed…" Aramis shuddered as he remembered praying on his knees to God to spare Athos' life.

"…very much concerned you," she finished and he nodded his head.

"We had a disagreement on his fitness for this mission. However, the Captain ruled in Athos' favor."

"Your Captain must have had some reason. Perhaps he thought that Athos, left behind, wondering day in and day out about his brothers' safety, would be worse than being here where you can watch over him."

Aramis looked at her in amazement once more. "Madame. You are a witch."

She crossed herself and said a little prayer. "Please Monsieur Aramis. Never utter those words again even in jest. Our profession brings us too close to that edge at times in many religious people's minds. They burn witches."

Aramis knew too well how popular opinion or men with a grudge could use the term witch to destroy a woman, so he nodded his head, before excusing himself to prepare to bed down for the night.

It was decided that the Musketeers would sleep in their bedrolls, near the door, in case the innkeeper had a change of heart in the night. He had not been pleased with Athos' raid on his kitchen, nor the amount he would get for the cost of lodgings. Porthos kept reminding him he was lucky to get anything at all.

Before they went to bed, Betta had a few more questions for the Musketeers.

"How long will it take us to reach Paris?" she asked Athos, who had his left arm back in the sling and his right hand wrapped around a mug of warm spiced wine.

The Lieutenant eyed the wagons trying to gauge how quickly they could travel. "Five to seven days, depending on the condition of the roads and your horses."

Betta studied the crackling fire for a few minutes, lost in thought. "Once we arrive in Paris, do you think your King will give us time to prepare?"

Aramis tackled this question. "Maybe a few days at most. Our King is impatient at times, though he will probably want to invite some of his favorite nobility to the performance, so that could take some time to arrange."

"So at best I have a week to come up with a new performance using only my nine dancers."

"How large was your troop originally," d'Artagnan asked, hoping it wasn't too painful a question.

She looked away from the fire and gave him a sad little smile to let him know she didn't mind his inquiry. "We numbered eighteen in total. Four male dancers and nine females. Then we had Carlo, David, and Luis who didn't dance, but drove the wagons, played a stray instrument or two and protected us; they were ex-soldiers who knew their way in the world."

Settling deeper into her chair, she continued. "The night we got separated, Luis and David fell ill, perhaps from something they ate. So Diana and I took over driving two of the wagons, Carlo drove the third containing the two sick men and the rest of the male dancers, Paulo, Rocco, Zuan and Marco. Given the nature of the illness, we felt the men might feel more comfortable surrounded by their own. We shifted some of the supplies to the wagon I was driving to make a bit more room. And you know what happened after that."

"To good friends and missing comrades. May they find rest and peace in the Kingdom of Heaven," Aramis toasted, raising his glass in salute before taking a sip.

"So I gather you have no performances ready using just your female dancers," Athos quickly surmised after hearing the original composition of the troop.

Shaking her head sadly, she replied, "A few short pieces, exhibitions really. Not enough for a performance for a King."

"And how long, does it take to come up with new routines and learn them?" d'Artagnan asked, curious as to how the process worked.

"Oh, I suppose I always have an idea or two in my head at any given time. But never have I envisioned one with a totally female ensemble. We have always had at least one a male dancer." She grew quiet as she stared at the flames and seemed to lose herself in her own mind.

Seeing the dancers' leader was in deep contemplation, the Musketeers rose, quietly excused themselves and went to set up their bedrolls nearer the barn's doors in case they should get any visitors in the night. The men set up a watch schedule which excluded Athos, who for once, didn't fight them. The Comte rolled up in his bed roll and quickly fell asleep and stayed that way until dawn. Betta eventually dozed off by the fire and one of the girls tossed a blanket over her and left her undisturbed.

Morning found the four Musketeers standing with the barn door cracked open, staring outside at the weather. The door really didn't even need to be open to know what was happening. It was pouring rain.

"No one is going anywhere with those wagons in this weather," d'Artagnan announced. "They'll get mired before we even get out of the courtyard."

The temperatures had risen unseasonably overnight and the combination of warmth and rain was melting all the snow, turning the world into a mud bath.

"Guess we are going to have to tell the lovely proprietor of this outstanding establishment that we have decided to extend our stay," Aramis sarcastically announced as he watched the rain pound the ground and listened to the wind howl around the barn. He turned to look over at Athos, who was staring out the door like the rest of them. "Shall I go talk to the ever-charming owner?"

As tempted as Athos was to take his brother up on his offer, if for no other reason than not to have to go out in the deluge, he knew it wasn't right. With a sigh, he said, "No. The innkeeper and I have an…established relationship."

"I'll go with you," Porthos announced, stepping up beside the Lieutenant. "See what's on the menu for breakfast."

The two Musketeers snugged their hats on their heads and turned up the collars of their cloaks before dashing into the storm. Betta and a few of the girls had joined them at the door, watching Athos and Porthos slosh across the mucky courtyard.

"They'll be cold, wet and out of sorts upon their return I fear," Betta predicted as she turned away from the door. "Girls, put some water on to boil and place blankets near the fire to warm. Our friends the Musketeers will need warmth upon their return."

Athos and Porthos did eventually return looking like drowned rats, though they did have more provisions for the troops.

"The innkeeper was…"

"…his usual charming self," Athos answered Aramis' question as he handed the basket of food to one of the dancers. "Seeing as we are likely to be stuck here for a few days, and since we are King's Musketeers, he graciously offered that we might relocate to the inn."

"But not the dancers, I'd hazard a guess," Aramis speculated as he took Athos' wet cloak.

"There wasn't _that_ much room in the inn. In fact, our upright citizen of France wasn't sure there was even enough room for anyone other than me and d'Artagnan. I got the impression you and Porthos looked a bit too…foreign…for his narrow view on life." Wiggling his toes in his boots, the Comte sighed. "I think that damn rain got my boots."

"You and Porthos go change into dry clothes and then wrap yourself in blankets by the fire until you warm up. Don't' want either of you getting sick," Aramis admonished them.

In the afternoon, Betta had her dancers once more take to the barn floor and train for three hours. The musketeers soon forgot the scanty outfits the dancers preferred to train in and were again mesmerized by the athleticism, grace, stamina and strength of the woman. When the dancers were done, the Musketeers took a note from their book and stripped down to their shirt sleeves to spar. The exercise felt good and the four men pushed each other to their limits, changing up who fought who, moving from one on one to finally all three attacking Athos, who did a good job of beating off their advances, though in the end they did disarm and 'kill' him.

As they put away their weapons, Aramis moved next to Athos who was still sweating and breathing heavily. "You lost."

Green eyes stared up at him from under a tangle of sweat-soaked hair. "Thank you for pointing that out."

"The point is, normally, we can't beat you. Even three on one. We can come to a draw, but disarm you? That is a rare occasion indeed," Aramis pointed out.

"I guess today is a rare occasion then," Athos flipped back the comment.

Aramis placed his hand flat on Athos good shoulder, stopping the man and making him focus his attention on him. "No. This only proves that I was right. You are not sufficiently healed to be on this mission." To make his point, Aramis removed his hand from Athos' chest, then without warning, lightly slapped the swordsman on his left shoulder causing Athos to hiss and take a step backwards. "What if this had been a real fight, Athos? You'd either be dead or one of us would be, trying to save you."

Reaching up, Athos massaged the skin around the scar on his shoulder. "Your point is well-taken and if at any time on the remainder of this trip we are fighting bandits, I shall only engage two at a time." Though his voice was formal, a twinkle was in his green eyes and a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Aramis made a mock bow, knowing his point had been received. "That is agreeable."

Later in the day, Betta approached Athos who was honing the edge on his main gauche. Sitting on the hearth, near his chair she inquired as to how long he thought they'd be forced to remain here.

"Even if this rain lets up tonight, which I doubt, the roads will remain treacherous and unpassable for a few more days. I'd say we are going to be here for at least three more days."

The old woman nodded as if that is exactly what she expected to hear. "This could work out then."

"What work out?" Aramis asked, as he brought a mug of soup over to Athos before dropping into the chair next to him with his own mug. D'Artagnan and Porthos joined the trio by the fire, the Gascon handing a mug to Betta before perching on the edge of the hearth.

Athos looked at the contents of the mug and took a quick sniff of the steam. When he glanced up again, he found Aramis grinning at him. "Soup, not wine."

"One can always hope." Though in truth Athos didn't mind since he was actually hungry for a change.

"I have an idea for a new performance," Betta announced out of the blue. Four sets of eyes focused on her with interest. "Ballets tell a tale. You are familiar with the story of David and Goliath?"

"Giant taken down by the little guy," Porthos summed up the well-known tale from the Bible.

"I envision my nine ladies dancing so fiercely that they topple the giant Goliath," Betta said with the passion and fire that shone from her soul.

"But," d'Artagnan interjected between sips of soup, "you have no male dancers left to play Goliath."

A sly twinkle came in the old dancer's eyes. "Perhaps Goliath doesn't need to dance the ballet per se. Just move gracefully and be strong. My girls and I enjoyed watching your exhibition today. Sword fighting has a lot in common with ballet. One needs to be light on one's feet, supple, strong, flexible and have sharp wits, all things found in a good dancer."

Porthos' rumbling laugher echoed through the barn. "Musketeers. Like dancers. Not likely. Maybe Athos, being a Comte and all can dance, though I have never seen him do so."

Betta's eyes flew to the stoic Musketeer who was extremely unhappy with the direction this conversation was taking. "You are nobility?"

"I know," Aramis interposed slyly. "Doesn't look the part does he."

Athos practically squirmed in his chair under the intense scrutiny now focused on him by Betta and the dancers. Only an extreme effort on his part kept him in the chair and not wiggling, though his index finger was tapping on the side of his mug of soup.

"I can see Monsieur Athos embodies the characteristics of a Comte," Betta declared, stating the obvious. "But alas his injury is a hindrance, and though he has a most terrifying scowl, he lacks the physical presence of Goliath."

Athos narrowed his eyes, suddenly feeling like he and his brothers were being led into a trap. "Madame Betta. Do I detect a purpose to your words?"

Her steel grey eyes came to rest on Porthos, who was absorbed in draining the last of his soup from his mug. "We don't want to disappoint the King of France. Nor, if I understand correctly, his pregnant Queen. A show must go on. I think the King will find the familiar tale of David and Goliath, set to ballet, to be of interest. We shall dress the nine lady dancers in costumes that hint they are the mighty King of France and Goliath shall look like an enemy of the country whom the King defeats."

All the other Musketeers, bar Porthos, had figured out what Betta was suggesting and they all shifted their focus to the streetfighter, who felt a sudden chill creep up his spine. When he looked up, he saw everyone gazing at him. "Whadda I miss?" he asked, with suspicion.

"You, Porthos, have been drafted into Madame Betta dance troop," Aramis smugly informed his friend.

"Oi, like that's gonna happen," he snorted. A touch of panic crept into this voice when he realized everyone was still staring at him. "Wait, you're serious!"

"Porthos, you won't have to dance like my girls do. Mostly stand, look fierce, and assist a dancer or two. I have seen you fight. You move with grace for one of your stature. Do not underestimate your abilities," the dance instructor complimented him.

Aramis couldn't help adding his two cents worth. "It's for the Queen, Porthos. A true love quest. Surely, you don't want to disappoint their Majesties."

"You know how the King gets," d'Artagnan added to the fray, "when he doesn't get his way."

"If we end this conversation right now, and never mention it again, no one will be disappointed," Porthos replied to the grinning Aramis.

Athos hated being the Lieutenant of this group of insane Musketeers, especially when all his brothers' eyes turned to stare at him, looking for him to resolve this problem.

"The King's representative, who sought us out, promised we'd be paid handsomely for our performance. Carlo, David, Luis and I normally divided the troop's meager funds between us for safety. Now, with them lost, we only have the few coins in my purse, so we are nearly broke. We need this performance." Betta didn't stoop to pleading, that was not who she was, but she did try to present reason.

Athos set his mug aside, half-finished, wishing it had been wine. "Your musicians. Petro is with you still for we have heard him play during your practices. But the rest are gone. How will you do a show without them?"

"I will do percussion on a hand drum. When we get to Paris, Petro will seek out some musicians to assist. The compositions we use are familiar in the music community so there is always someone who knows them and can provide a wind or stringed instrument," she explained. "It only takes one or two practices to get everyone playing on the same sheet of music if you will," she ended with a little smile.

"So with the aid of Porthos, you could perform your dance," Athos concluded, looking over at Porthos to see how he was taking the situation.

"Yes. We could perform," Betta replied, then bowed her head to wait for a decision.

Athos' intense green eyes met Porthos' skeptical brown ones. "What say you, Porthos?" The Lieutenant could technically order Porthos to do it, but he'd rather the streetfighter go into this willingly.

Porthos glanced at the bowed head of the grey-haired woman, then swept his eyes over the nine lady dancers and Petro who had joined them at the fire. If he did this it wouldn't be for the King or Queen, or even duty. It would be for these people, who had suffered and been left with nothing. He knew what that was like. With a skeptical sigh, he announced. "I'll do it. But I ain't wearing no costume."

Betta's head flew up and tears of gratitude sparkled in her eyes. "Thank you."

It rained for two more days and then took another three for the roads to begin to be passable. While they waited to be able to head back to Paris, Porthos learned the world of ballet. As Betta had promised, Porthos' role was mainly to strut about the stage looking fierce. Somehow, Betta also taught the Musketeer to look graceful as he was strutting about the stage. The streetfighter learned how to support a dancer delicately as she twirled, as well as how to lift a leaping dancer elegantly into the air and let her down, light as a feather.

The other Musketeers were put into service too. A small pipe appeared, courtesy of Petro, and d'Artagnan confessed he did know how to play a shepherd's pipe and soon the mute musician was teaching him the music for the dance. Aramis and his sewing skills were put into use making costumes for the nine dancing ladies who were to represent the King of France slaying the fierce giant. Porthos' costume was basically his leathers, though all references to being a Musketeer were removed for they felt it might not go over well to have the King fighting his own elite guards. The only one who would enjoy that scenario would be the Cardinal.

Betta taught Athos to beat out the correct rhythms on her hand drum and discovered he had excellent timing. He confessed to her, out of ear shot of his brethren, that he did know how to play the piano and had developed an ear for music as well as timing from those endeavors. She kept his secret, but suspected if he played the piano like he did everything else in life, he was probably quite skillful.

Every day Athos and Porthos rode forth to check the conditions of the roads and finally reported back they'd be able to proceed to Paris in the morning. The innkeeper was delighted to see them go the next day and made no secret that he hoped he'd never see any of them again.

The journey back to Paris was pleasant as the temperatures had risen with bright sunshine. Each day they stopped about two hours before sunset, seeking shelter in a barn when possible, so they could get in a few hours of practice. The farmers they stayed with weren't always sure what to make of the dancers and Musketeers. Athos had a fear of what sorts of stories this might generate, especially if they reached the ears of the Red Guards.

Finally, they reached Paris and headed for the garrison rather than the palace until they could all have an opportunity to clean up. It also allowed the dancers and Porthos to continue to practice in one of the garrison's storage areas, which were temporarily emptied. The Captain was told of their adventures and watched one of the rehearsals after which he grabbed Athos and told him to meet him in his office.

With some trepidation, Athos glanced around at this brothers, then the dancers, before heading for the door. As he walked by Betta, she gave him a pat on the arm. "Maybe our next production shall be Daniel and the Lion's den," she humorously suggested.

"Tell me that Daniel wins," Athos wryly said as he left the rehearsal area.

Knocking on the Captain's door, he waited for the command to enter before proceeding. Taking up his normal position in front of Treville's desk, he waited, trying to quell his anxiety.

The Captain walked around the front of his desk and perched on the corner. "This certainly wasn't my expectation from this mission."

Athos eyes watched his Captain as he replied, "Nor was it mine. But, as a Musketeer one must be able to…adapt."

"Adapt. By becoming a dancer?" Treville inquired, unable to keep the smirk off his face.

"It is, I admit, an unusual situation," Athos drily stated.

"How in the world did you get Porthos to agree?" Treville asked with curiosity. He thought the limits of friendship stretched only so far.

"Porthos realized it was the right thing to do. Not for his King. Or for his Country. But for those dancers, who have lost so much. He felt a…kinship."

Treville pushed off his desk and walked over to the window where he saw the Musketeers and dancers gathered in the courtyard. "That sounds like Porthos."

"His heart is large."

"How do you think," Treville turned back to face Athos, "the King will take this ballet with one of his elite, fearsome, Musketeers taking center stage. Do you think he will find it, unfitting?"

Scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, Athos admitted, "We did think of that aspect, which is why his costume has nothing on it to suggest a Musketeer, just your run of the mill giant."

"Your run of the mill giant," Treville echoed back with irony.

"If it is of any consolation, the King of France defeats the terrible giant," Athos deadpanned, though his eyes were twinkling.

The night of the performance went spectacularly well with the King being delighted by the dancers and the subject matter of the ballet. It was as if he had actually slain the giant himself. The Queen was also amused by the performance and the cleverness of the troop. Their Majesties rewarded the troop lavishly, with enough coin to set them back on the road to recovery.

The troop, just before they left Paris to head back to Italy to look for more dancers, asked Porthos if he'd like to join them. But the Musketeer politely declined, though a good time was had by all trading comments on the subject.

The four Inseparables stood at the garrison's arched gate watching the wagons depart.

"That was certainly a different sort of adventure," d'Artagnan said as they stopped by their favorite table near the stairs to the Captain's office.

"Don't you mean true love quest?" Aramis teased the Gascon as he settled on the table's top.

Athos wished for the nine hundredth time he had never used that term.

"I wonder what our next one will be?" Aramis pondered aloud.

"If we're lucky, none," the swordsman grumbled in an uncharitable manner.

"But they are for the Queen, Athos," which was becoming Aramis' new motto.

Athos was about to say he didn't care when Treville rode through the gate and drew up near them. Dismounting and handing his horse to the stable lad, he strode over to their table.

"I see the dancers are on their way," he noted, having passed the wagons on the road and said his own goodbyes.

"Yes. The money from the King will allow them to restart their troop," Athos said, though they all knew money wouldn't bring back the people they had lost.

"Good. Now you are free to focus on your new assignment from the King."

"Please tell me it doesn't have to do with birds," d'Artagnan pleaded, for even if he used to be a farmer, he had had enough of the birds.

"No, this one does not involve a bird. But rather a fox," Treville offered up as a clue.

"A hunt? The King wants to go on a hunt in December?" Athos scoffed, looking at his commander with disbelief.

"It seems this nice weather, and the fact he saw a fox run across the palace lawns made him think a hunt was a grand idea. And with the foxes caught, he will have a coat made for the Queen."

Porthos whistled. "That's a lot of foxes."

Treville continued detailing the assignment. "The King is inviting ten of his favorite Lords to go on this hunt with him."

"Ten Lords leaping fences on a hunt," Aramis humorously said. "What could go wrong with that?"


	10. Chapter 10

TLQ 10

The hunt went as well as could be expected having to escort ten of the King's current favorite nobles through the forest. Treville had noted over the years that the nobility of France seemed to fall into three main categories: those currying favor who fawned over the King in a ridiculous manner, those who were secretly plotting to overthrow him, and those that wanted to be left alone to live a peaceful life. These ten, hand-selected, by the King, were all Comtes and seemed mostly to be from the fawning group, though there were one or two that might be leaning towards plotting if the price was right.

The four Musketeers, along with Treville, had been assigned guard duty on the hunt, which given the unseasonably warm weather wasn't all that unpleasant. The nobles were of varying ages, though all rode well so it was a spirited hunt. The nice weather seemed to have flushed a lot of animals out of hiding and there were plenty of things at which to shoot.

As with all these types of events, no matter who actually shot the quarry, it was always the King's bullet that must have been the one that brought it down. The Musketeers had learned early on that if the King didn't return from a hunt with a decent number of 'kills' to his credit, then his mood turned ugly. Often he would take it out on Treville and his regiment; they rode too close and affected his aim, they made too much noise, and other silly excuses. Therefore, the Musketeers endeavored to ensure that one of them, usually Aramis with his eagle eye, was close enough to the front of the pack to ensure the 'King' shot a lot of game.

It never ceased to amaze the Musketeers, who used guns for a living, how some people's aim could be so bad. It was terrifying how many near misses and actual hits the Musketeers took on their persons during these hunting soirees. More than once trees and bushes near the Musketeers took unexpected damage, not to mention Aramis' hat, Porthos' arm, Athos' cloak and d'Artagnan's horse's rump. For the safety of all, Treville had convinced the King to allow him to instigate a few rules. One was if the King was anywhere in front of you, to the side, or even a few feet behind, you were forbidden to take a shot at the game. Then only two people at any time could fire. Athos wanted to institute a shooting test before each hunt and those nobles that couldn't pass would not be allowed to carry a weapon. However, Treville, while appreciative of the idea, denied it, feeling the King wouldn't be in favor of it. Athos then asked if the King enjoyed living with a hint of distain in his voice, which earned him a few cold nights of guard duty.

They had bagged a good number of animals, including a number of foxes, which especially pleased the King as he planned to have them made into a coat for his Queen, another gift for his true love and mother of his child. While they were giving the horses a break, one of the younger nobles mentioned a club in Paris that he liked to frequent and somehow, the next thing Treville knew he was being ordered to escort the group to this location to celebrate a successful hunt. No amount of pleading on the Captain's part would dissuade the King from his intention to be 'one of the boys' and attend the celebration. Treville did a quick survey of his Musketeers, asking if anyone knew anything about the place. Athos was the only one of the group who had heard of its existence, since he once travelled in those circles, unbeknownst to most present. While he'd never been in the club, he knew it was in a nice area and had heard that it was a 'suitable' place for nobility to drink.

Treville sent Athos and Aramis on ahead to the club to make whatever arrangements they could to ensure the safety of his Majesty. D'Artagnan, he sent to the palace to let them know of the change in plans, while he and Porthos stayed behind to escort the King and the ten lords to the club.

Athos and Aramis rode up to the structure, each surveying the area for danger as they approached. The club had two stories, with two windows on each level facing the street. There was a building to either side of it; both appeared to have shops on the lower floors and living quarters on the upper ones. Handily, across the street was a livery stable, where patrons could stable their horses while at the facility. However, Athos and Aramis left their mounts tied out front while they inspected the place. So far, it seemed somewhat defendable it need be, but there was a lot more to examine.

The inside was more glamorous than either Musketeer expected. Highly polished wood, deep cushioned chairs, gleaming metal, racks of sparkling glasses, and bottles of liqueur were artfully arranged about the place. As they came through the door, two men immediately stopped them in a small antechamber and explained this was a private club, not for the likes of them.

Aramis marveled once again at how Athos could slide into his Comte mode without a preamble as the Musketeer demanded to be taken to the owner of the establishment. The greeters, who made Porthos' look small, asked their business, but Athos only gave them a cool stare and repeated his request. True to form, Athos' demeanor had them being escorted to an office at the back of the first floor. As they walked through the lower area, they noted a number of smaller chambers to the side; for private parties, they assumed.

The owner of the establishment, who was sitting behind the desk when the two Musketeers were escorted into his office, stood and cordially greeted the King's Musketeers, recognizing their pauldrons. At Athos' request, which was really a thinly disguised command, the two greeters were sent back to their post. After declining a glass of wine, Athos explained why they were here and the owner nearly forgot to breathe when he heard the King was coming to his establishment.

"It would be best if there was a private space where the King and his guests could celebrate. I saw you have some reserved chambers…" Athos said to the owner, who was still brimming with excitement.

"Oh, but they are too small. But what I do have is a large space on the second floor. It would be perfect. Very private."

"If you'll show us, please," Athos politely requested, again with it being just short of a demand as Aramis opened the door to the office.

"You know I am a noble myself. I got so tired of having no place to have a drink in Paris with people of my own kind that I opened this place. Most taverns in Paris…" He made a derogatory sound indicating what he thought of them and their patrons.

"Oh, I don't know," Aramis noted cheerfully as they climbed the stairs to the second story. "I have found some of them quite charming and the occupants most hospitable."

It was practically written on the noble owner's face that he didn't find it at all unusual that a Musketeer might find normal Paris' taverns suitable to drink in.

Aramis exchanged an amused glance with Athos and whispered. "I'll bet you outrank this toady by miles, and you like the local taverns."

"Technically, my family outranks most in France," Athos replied in a manner that wasn't a boast but simply a statement of fact from a man who didn't care. "and 'like' may not be the right word to describe my affinity for taverns."

The upstairs room was perfect. It encompassed most of the second-floor space except for a storage room in the back that was currently empty. As this was a middle building, there were no windows on either side of the long room, and none in the storage area. The only windows were the two that overlooked the front of the building that they had noted earlier. Easy to defend if necessary, but providing very limited escape routes.

"That door can be locked," the owner pointed to the one at the top of the stairs. "For safety purposes."

There was a well-stocked bar along one side of the room and again, comfortable looking chairs, settees, and tables filled the space.

"No doubt the King and his guests will be hungry. Have you any food you could serve?" Athos inquired, knowing that drinking on an empty stomach would lead to undesired behavior. Not everyone could hold their liquor as well as he could.

"Yes, I can arrange for that," the owner crowed, rubbing his hands together in glee. "How many are with the King?"

"Ten other nobles are riding with the King," Athos offhandedly answered as he surveyed the hall once more

Like it was nothing, which to Athos it was because he wasn't into titles and such, the Comte turned Musketeer rattled off the names of some of the most influential families in France. The owner of the club began plotting. The King and his top nobles in one place. He had friends that would very much like to know this information and would pay handsomely. And, if he played his cards right, and the King and his top advisers were to die by the hands of his acquaintances, maybe he would be remembered and elevated to his proper place in society.

"What do you think, Aramis?" Athos asked as he turned to the marksman, who had been staring out one of the front window at the street below.

"I think I see the King approaching," he lazily replied as he rotated away from the window sill.

The owner of the club nearly had a fit. "What! Already! I must go prepare!" he flew across the room and down the stairs like the devil himself was chasing him.

Baffled, Athos walked over to the window. "Already? They made good time." He scanned the streets seeing nothing. "They're not out there."

Grinning, Aramis came over to his side. "Oh? My mistake. But it was fun to watch that toady scramble away. Are all nobility such…" the marksman searched for a word and finally settled on, "…opportunists?"

Athos' answer was succinct and dripping with scorn. "Yes."

"It's amazing you are as normal as you are then. Well maybe normal isn't quite the right term…"

Aramis slapped Athos on the shoulder who simply frowned and quirked an eyebrow at him before staring out the window again for a few minutes. Aramis had a feeling his Lieutenant was disturbed by something.

"Something wrong, Athos? All things considered this isn't a bad place for the King to party if he insists. The owner, while something of a social climber, does seem loyal to the King."

Athos shook his head and moved away from the window tamping down the concern he couldn't put his finger on. "No. You are right. This could be a lot worse." His path took him over to the bar area where the bottles of liquor and wine were stocked. The wine aficionado ran a gloved finger over the labels. "And our noble innkeeper does have excellent taste in wines." Though he'd never presume to drink while on duty, there was a little itch to uncork one of the exceptional vintages on display. "Perhaps I shall have to make a visit here one night," he sighed as he turned to head for the stairs. "Of course it will have to be on my own. They don't let Musketeer rif-raff in here."

"And you think the toady's goons will let you through the door? Lest you forget, you are a mere Musketeer now, who happens also to be an ex-Comte from one of the oldest families in France."

They walked down the stairs shoulder to shoulder to the first floor, then headed for the front door of the club, while Aramis continued to expound on Athos' pedigree.

"Are you done yet?" Athos asked in a rather bored tone as they passed by another rack of good wines which almost made him groan.

Chirpily, Aramis replied, "For the moment, yes."

"Good." They walked past the owner who was hustling around getting ready for the King's arrival and then out the front door to where they had tied their horses. "And for the record, there is no such thing as an ex-Comte. I was born with the curse and I shall carry it until my death."

"We should all be so cursed," Aramis remarked offhandedly and then immediately apologized. "I'm sorry, Athos. I know what it was like for you. There are different ways to suffer."

Athos' flinched slightly, but didn't respond. He felt he had no right to. When you looked at the way Aramis, Porthos and even d'Artagnan grew up, and compared it to his upbringing, he understood he was spared a lot of hardships as a child. However, he sometimes thought God had just saved them up until he was an adult.

Taking the reins of their mounts, they led the animals across the street to the stable and made arrangements to have them rubbed down and fed. Then they headed back across the street to wait for the arrival of the royal party. Athos kept eyeing the three buildings situated in a row. There was something strange about their height. Their second floors seemed higher than normal.

"Aramis. You've leapt from a few second story windows in your time. Do these seem extraordinarily high to you?"

The marksman allowed his eyes to drift upwards then downwards as he pondered the question. "Yes. Now that you mention it, they do. One could get seriously hurt jumping from them. Let's hope we don't have to."

The conversation came to a halt as the sound of approaching hoofbeats filled the air. A few heartbeats later, Treville came around the corner in the lead, with the King behind him, then the nobles, and Porthos guarding the rear. The owner, upon hearing the horses, rushed out of the club to greet the royal party. He swept them all inside while Porthos, Aramis and Athos were left with the twelve horses. Treville threw an apologetic glance over his shoulder as he went inside with the King.

With a little maneuvering, the Musketeers gathered the reins of the horses and led them across the street to the stables. While they were in the stables with the horses, four men, dressed in dark cloaks, slid into the club, past the greeters who nodded to them, and into one of the private chambers on the first floor. They closed the door and removed the items they had concealed under their cloaks. It was going to be one blast of a party.

The Musketeers noted it was getting very hot in the room, so Aramis looked around for one of the servants to see about opening the windows. He scouted the room but strangely could not find a single servant, not even the one who'd been pouring the drinks all night. He didn't think too much of it; perhaps they had taken a quick break. He'd just open the windows himself.

As he passed by the King and the nobles, Aramis noted they were fairly inebriated and trying to play what looked like a complicated card game. Any card game with eleven people was going to be hectic, even more so if the players were tipsy and silly. After opening of of the windows, Aramis leaned out for some fresh air, and noticed smoke drifting along the ground. Curiously looking down, he saw clouds of thick white smoke pouring out of the first-floor door and windows. Across the street, he saw four men in black cloaks standing and watching as the building burned.

"Athos!" he yelled across the room to the Lieutenant, who was lurking in a far corner, hot, tired and wishing Treville could convince the King to go home.

The swordsman knew that tone of voice and he hurried over to where Aramis was standing by the window. Porthos and d'Artagnan, who was back from the palace, detected the urgency from Aramis and, noting Athos purposely moving across the room, they trailed after him.

"The building is on fire," the marksman urgently whispered to Athos, who stuck his head out the window to confirm. "Deliberately. See the four men up the street, dark cloaks?"

"Grab my belt," Athos instructed Porthos as he leaned even further out the window to try to survey what was occurring. Not only was the bottom floor of the building they were in on fire, but it appeared the two structures on either side of them were also ablaze. Cursing, he pulled himself back into the room with a little help from Porthos. "D'Artagnan, Porthos. Go check the door. See if we can get out that way." He already had a pretty good idea the answer would be no.

Treville, having that six-sense when it came to his men, glanced up from where he was standing by the King's side and saw his four Musketeers clustered by the window. Catching Athos' eye, he saw the slight head tilt asking him to join them. As he made his apologies and headed across the room, he saw d'Artagnan and Porthos break off and head towards the door leading downstairs, which was shut tight.

"What's wrong?" he demanded the second he reached Athos.

"It would seem this fine establishment is on fire." Athos gestured towards the window and Treville took his own look outside before pulling his head back in with a curse.

"We have to get the King out of here," Treville stated with urgency.

"Well it won't be by the stairs. Flames are already creeping up them and the bottom floor is impassable. And this floor is going to go soon," d'Artagnan declared as he and Porthos rejoined the group.

"Then it will have to be the window," Treville stated as he looked outside again. "Too far to jump. "Is there any rope about?" In the store room?"

"No Captain, it is empty," Aramis replied, remembering from their earlier tour.

"I once saw a blanket used to catch people as they jumped out a window," d'Artagnan told them, garnering him skeptical looks from the others.

"How did the blanket help? The ground is a long way down and very hard." Aramis looked at d'Artagnan with puzzlement, not visualizing the concept.

"There were people holding the blanket. Tight. Off the ground. Think of it like bouncing on a bed," he clarified and the other Musketeers nodded their heads, finally understanding.

"But you'd need at least four people on the ground holding the blanket. Four strong ones. We are all trapped here."

"Human chain," Aramis uttered decidedly. "As was pointed out to me earlier, I have some experience in exiting from second story windows."

"Don't ask," Porthos told d'Artagnan, who appeared about to question the marksman's statement.

"Porthos and Athos hold on to d'Artagnan's legs, he holds on to my wrists and I drop to the ground nice and easy. Then we do the same dropping d'Artagnan next and adding the Captain to hold at the top."

Porthos looked around at this brothers. "But I'm the strongest. Shouldn't I be on the ground to hold the blanket?"

"Ideally, but we also need your strength up here to lower us," Aramis explained and they all nodded their heads.

"But that only leaves two of us on the ground. And we don't have a lot of time to find help. This floor could collapse at any time," d'Artagnan warned them.

"We'll think of something. Let's do this," Aramis said as he moved towards the window.

"Should we inform the King of the peril?" Athos turned to his Captain and asked.

Treville glanced across the room at the King and nobles, who were quite tipsy and totally ignoring the Musketeers. "In a moment. Let's get these two on the ground first."

Aramis climbed out the window and hung by his hands. Next d'Artagnan firmly grasped Aramis' wrists. Finally, Athos and Porthos each grabbed one of the lad's legs and in a coordinated effort, Aramis let go of the window sill, totally dependent on d'Artagnan not to fall. Athos and Porthos dangled the Gason as far out the window as possible. What they hadn't figured on was the smoke billowing out of the lower story windows, nor the flames which were singeing Aramis and d'Artagnan.

"Let go," Aramis screamed at the Gascon and with some reluctance, the lad did as he was told.

It was still about a twelve foot drop, but Aramis handled it perfectly, quickly bouncing to his feet. Since he could be of no help with d'Artagnan's fall, he sprinted towards the stable to look for help.

Hearing a muffled ouch, he looked back in time to see d'Artagnan climbing to his feet and limping in his direction. They found a piece of canvas that was used to cover a wagon and decided it would make a good catching device. The problem was there were still only two of them. Everyone else nearby seemed to have disappeared.

"Here's a wagon, with straw in it. If we add some more and push it under the window next to the building, maybe Porthos could drop into it," d'Artagnan said, though his voice betrayed his doubt.

"It's our only move," Aramis stated factually as he grabbed a pitchfork and began to add more straw to the wagon's bed.

With d'Artagnan doing the same, they quickly had the wagon filled with straw. Grunting, they rolled it out the door, across the street and maneuvered it under the window as close as possible to the burning building.

"Hurry," Aramis shouted up at the men watching from the window. Already the straw at the edge of the wagon was starting to smolder.

"This is risky. That wagon isn't going to offer much of a soft landing," the Captain declared looking out the window.

"I'll go," Athos said preparing to remove his sword.

Porthos reached over and stopped him. "It has to be me. I'll be more use on the ground than you."

"But I'm lighter. It's more likely the straw might break my fall," Athos returned, fearing for his brother's safety.

"He right, Athos. It has to be him," the Captain interceded, hoping he wouldn't have to make it an order.

Knowing they were right, Athos bowed his head and backed away from the window.

Porthos' leap wasn't pretty. He crashed through the straw to the bottom of the wagon and a few boards broke, but the wagon didn't totally collapse. As Aramis and d'Artagnan helped Porthos off the wagon they saw he was clutching his side.

"Let me see," Aramis demanded but Porthos brushed him off.

"We don't have time. They are all going to die if we don't get them out of there soon."

D'Artagnan looked dubiously at the canvas. "We can do this with three, I think, but it's going to be risky for the next person who jumps."

The flames from the first floor were more intense and the crashing of wood from within could be heard. The integrity of the second floor was of grave concern. They pushed the wagon out of the way, quickly extinguishing the bits of straws that were flaming. Grabbing the canvas, they stretched it out as close to the building as possible, in a triangular format.

Treville and Athos watched from the window and knew what was expected.

"You'd best go next, Athos. I will stay with the King. Once there are four of you on the canvas it will be much safer," the Captain told his Lieutenant, who shook his head.

"As much as I'd rather not have the pleasure of staying with his Majesty and the nobles, I believe it would be best if you went next."

Treville debated for a second or two, it was a coin toss up either way. The King might panic here or on the ground. There was no right answer, so he agreed with Athos. "Fine. Let's go roundup the King and his drinking pals and get this moving."

By now, a hazy layer of smoke was creeping through the room as the temperature continued to climb.

The King glanced up from the card game he was involved in as Treville and Athos approached him. "Treville, it is getting rather hot in here. Would you do something about that. I can't concentrate and as you can see there is a lot at stake here. Can't have my perfect winning streak broken."

"Sire, we need to leave. You are in danger."

The King waved his hands and made a noise of disbelief. "You worry too much Treville. Now do something about the heat and leave me to my game."

Treville felt something bump him on the arm and he looked to his right. "We don't have time for this. The fire has broken through the floor," Athos hissed as he tilted his head towards the staircase and the storage area where flames were now visible.

"Damn," Treville swore as he turned back to the King and grabbed his arm. "Now your Majesty."

The King began to sputter some reprimand, but one of the less drunk nobles spotted the flames and yelled, "Fire!"

The panic that they didn't want happening suddenly ignited and spread faster than the real fire. The nobles sprang to their feet and started milling around, uncertain what to do. The Captain had his hands full trying to get the King calm enough to listen, so Athos stepped up to deal with the other ten men.

"Enough!" he roared in a voice the cut through the chaos. "You need to remain calm and listen if you want to survive."

Ten eyes focused on him waiting for guidance. The leader that Treville was always confident lurked inside of Athos came to the forefront as the swordsman took control and moved the nobles over by the windows.

Treville finally got the King calm enough to listen and follow him over to the window. When the whole group was assembled on the far side of the room from the flames, Treville explained the plan and there was roar of dissention when Treville explained he was going first.

Athos rounded on the howling nobles and his King and barked, "Enough!" which such force everyone fell quiet. "Captain Treville is the only one of us in this room strong enough to hold that remaining corner tight, so that your jump out the window will not be the last act of your life."

"I'm strong," one of the nobles insisted who was standing to Athos' right.

"You are also drunk," the swordsman snapped. "You are more likely to pass out than do any good." A number of the other nobles offered reasons why they should go first and Athos brusquely shot them all down. "Enough!" he roared once more. "Unless you want to die." Athos gestured towards the fire which was slowly creeping around the room.

Athos had moved to the window to check that everyone below was ready to receive the Captain. A wave from d'Artagnan told him what he needed to know. "Captain," he calmly said, "It's time."

Treville moved closer to his Lieutenant. "Are you going to be able to control this drunken lot."

"Of course," Athos claimed in that utter calm and confident manner he could slip on and off at will. "I have a sword and a gun, if necessary."

Treville quirked an eyebrow at him, then laughed. "Try not to intimidate them too much."

A small smirk pulled at the corner of Athos' mouth. "I shall endeavor to remember that."

The Captain clapped him on the shoulder as he moved over to the windows and all the nobles and King crowded behind him.

"Step back from the windows, gentlemen" Athos commanded in his authoritative voice. "Please," he added after a heartbeat and with a slight head tilt to Treville to show he was being polite. "Captain Treville needs some room. If you'd like to watch, go and look out that window." He gestured towards the second window. In hindsight, that wasn't such a good idea as they all rushed over and jostled for a spot. The King of course got front and center.

Athos moved next to his Captain and softly intoned, "See you soon."

It was awkward for the Captain get out the window and into a sitting position on the sill that would allow him to jump outwards towards the canvas with some degree of control. The Musketeers below were trying to keep the canvas as close to the building as possible, but the flames on the first floor were hampering them.

"Take out the rest of this window, Athos. It will make it easier for the next person," the Captain instructed his second. Then without hesitation, Treville launched his body off the sill and Athos found himself moving close to the window and holding his breath. It was over in two seconds, but felt like an eternity to everyone watching. The Captain hit the triangular piece of canvas awkwardly and bounced towards Porthos who quickly dropped the material and grabbed his Captain. The two crashed to the ground and Porthos let out a cry of pain.

"His ribs," Aramis moaned as he dropped the canvas and scrambled towards the Captain and his brother.

Athos watched anxiously from above, knowing he should be knocking out the window frame and reassuring everyone in the room. It was his duty. But his heart demanded he stay and watch to ensure his brother and his Captain were safe. When he saw them rise to their feet, he let out the breath he had been holding, pulled out his pistol, reversed the grip and began knocking the glass from the window, followed by the cross bars, until he had a nice tall opening.

On the ground, Aramis was all over Porthos. "Did you hurt your ribs further?"

The streetfighter swatted away Aramis' probing fingers. "We still don't have time for this Aramis."

Treville was on his feet too and waved off the medic when he turned to examine the Captain. "Not now. We have to get them out." Moving to the corner of the canvas, he bent and picked it up. "Let's do this."

The four Musketeers stretched the canvas once more and edged as close as they could to the flame engulfed structure. The heat was not only singeing the Musketeers, but also the edges of the canvas. They had to move this operation along.

Upstairs, Athos was having to deal with ten scared nobles, flames creeping ever closer, and a King who had decided jumping wasn't a great idea. The smoke was starting to make breathing difficult and everyone had gathered by the window to get fresh air and cool off their skins. Athos directed one of the nobles to grab the pitcher of water, then instructed the rest to soak their handkerchiefs or another piece of cloth in the liquid and hold it over their mouths and noses.

While they were doing that, Athos turned back to the King, working on verbally persuading him to jump. After watching Treville, the King was not so sure this was a great idea and insisted Athos devise a safer method.

Trying to control his frustration, Athos stated, "Your Majesty, there isn't time for anything else. And with four men on the canvas it will be smoother."

The King looked out the window and then backed away again. Athos was wondering how much trouble he would be in if he simply pitched the man out the window. He thought he could do it. On the ground, Treville didn't understand what was taking so long. The building wasn't going to last forever.

"How about," Athos ground out between clenched teeth, "one of the others go first to assure you it is safe. Him," the swordsman said pointing at one of the younger nobles, who should make it look easy.

"That is the first good idea you have had, Musketeer." The King pointed a shaky finger at the noble. "You. Jump."

Athos moved over to the man who looked like he might crumble to the floor. Grabbing his elbow, the Musketeer propelled the man towards the window and hissed in his ear. "Get hold of yourself. You must be confident and make this look simple. For your King."

The noble suddenly wasn't sure if he was more afraid of jumping or of the man grasping his arm. Shakely, he climbed onto the open window frame, Athos keeping two hands on the man the whole time to make sure he didn't fall prematurely.

"Jump. Don't scream. When you hit the canvas, immediately rise, get off, smile and wave to the King. I don't care if every bone in your body is broken. You'd better convince me and your King it was all fine," Athos growled in his ear.

In the end, Athos wondered if the noble jumped simply to get away from him. But the man did it perfectly. He landed in the middle of the square and the four Musketeers dipped the canvas so it gently broke his fall. Porthos and Aramis dropped their side so the noble could scramble to his feet. Once he was upright, he plastered a big fake grin on his face, one he certainly wasn't feeling, turned to the window and gave a cheery wave.

The King absorbed all this, turned to his Musketeer and declared, "Well that seems fine. Really, as the King, I should have gone first."

Counseling himself not to toss his King out the window with his own hands, Athos stiffly bowed and muttered, "My mistake."

On the ground, the noble walked over to the Captain and whined, "Your Musketeer threatened me."

"And saved your life. We don't have time for this now. Please go stand over there and help support the canvas for your King," Treville instructed, in what he hoped was a reasonable tone.

The King finally got seated on the window sill, and when his courage seemed to fail him again for a moment, Athos might have helped his Majesty on his way with the slightest of shoves, though if asked he would deny it. He definitely did have to shove some of the drunken nobles off the window sill, which he did with a bit of relish at times. Even by the windows, they were all choking. Athos felt like his skin was on fire and he was experiencing moments of dizziness.

On the ground, they were rotating who stood close to the building after each jump, because the flames were growing increasingly hotter and more intense. The Musketeers were forced to move the safety net further from the building, making the jumpers have to leap a little further. Athos was glad he had sent the less fit nobles out the window first.

About halfway through, Athos suddenly realized there were no servants amongst them. The four men that had been dealing with the alcohol and food were not trapped here with them. It made Athos suspect the owner of the club might have something to do with this fire. But this wasn't the time to be thinking about that. There were still four of them needing to escape.

Without warning, a huge hole opened in the middle of the room and flames burst through the new opening. Athos and the three nobles were momentarily engulfed in the flames before they receded. Each of them were lightly burned on their exposed skin and they had to beat a few embers off their clothes.

"Hurry," Athos yelled grabbing one of the nobles and shoving him towards the window.

The fire was getting closer to the men, creeping across the room and eating away at the wooden floorboards. The last three nobles got out the window and safely onto the ground, leaving only Athos. A sudden gust of wind fanned the flames, and sparks and burning embers took to the air. A number of them landed on the canvas quickly eating holes in its surface. The Musketeers were not able to get the mini fires out in time and the canvas was ruined. The three brothers looked up at their fourth, who was perched on the window sill with nowhere to go.

"The wagon," d'Artagnan yelled. "We push it under the window and he drops onto it like Porthos."

"The straw is too dry and the fire too hot now. It will instantaneously combust into flames when it gets that close. Athos will be jumping from a fire into a fire," Aramis pointed out.

"Then we'll have to get him out of it quickly," d'Artagnan countered. "There's no other way."

The King and the nobles were clustered across the street in front of the stable. Captain Treville ran over and had four of them fill pails with water and stand by to douse the straw and Athos as needed. He selected an additional four to help push the wagon. The King was wrapped in a blanket, being very quiet for once. Spectators had begun show up and Treville wanted the King to remain as low profile as possible until they could escort him back to the palace. The Captain of the Musketeers had wanted the King to leave immediately, but he had refused until all his nobles were safe.

Athos saw what happened to the canvas and allowed himself a moment to wonder if this was how his life was going to end. It was in service to his King, which was honorable. However, he quickly shook himself out of that mode when he saw his beloved brothers below, scrambling for a way to save him. He owed it to them to stay focused and fight until the end. It didn't take long for him to figure out what their new plan was and he also recognized the risks. But, he came to the same conclusion as the men on the ground, there was no choice.

They pushed the wagon under the window and the straw immediately caught on fire. Athos didn't hesitate for a second and as soon as the wagon was in place he jumped, landing in the flaming straw.

The hands of his brothers pulled him from the inferno and doused him in cool water. Athos had no doubts, if he survived this ordeal, he'd have some horrendous new nightmares to add to his collection.

He lay on the ground, eyes shut, simply trying to breathe, as someone mopped his face and neck with a wet rag. Eventually, he forced his eyes open and saw three sets of brown eyes and one of blue staring at him with worry. "I'm good," he declared as he struggled to rise.

That made Captain Treville smile because it was the real Athos. Even though he was anything but good, the fact that the swordsman was insisting he was fine made the Captain feel reassured. These were his men, his brothers, who always put their lives on the line for others. True Musketeers.

Athos had managed to sit, with no small help from d'Artagnan and now was attempting to rise to his feet. "We have to get the King and the nobles to safety," he declared peering over at his Captain and then he looked abashed. "But of course you know that."

The Captain smiled at his Lieutenant, who was already focused on his duty. "Yes. The King insisted he had to stay to ensure his nobles were safe. Now we must get him back to the palace. Are you four fit to ride?"

The Captain asked, despite knowing that each one of them would insist he was perfectly fine to ride, even though he knew Porthos' ribs were cracked, d'Artagnan's ankle was sprained from his fall, Aramis' left arm was wrenched from holding the canvas and Athos looked like a slight breeze would knock him over. However, they were Musketeers and knew their duty. It made the Captain's heart swell with pride.

The four Musketeers quickly got to work getting the King and the nobles mounted and on their way to the castle. Happily, it was a smooth ride to the palace where the Cardinal took over, along with the Queen, to get the King settled, while the household staff took care of the nobles. The King's personnel physician was called and made his rounds. The Cardinal made it very clear to Treville his presence was no longer required.

Treville took his rag-tag band of worn and weary Musketeers back to the garrison where he insisted they all go to the infirmary to have their wounds treated. He sent a cadet to have Serge make a light meal for the exhausted men. Treville was only in his office for a short time when there was urgent knocking at his door and the Musketeer who entered at his biding declared they needed him in the infirmary.

The Captain's stomach lurched wondering what could have happened in such a short time to his Musketeers. Were their injuries more grievous than he realized? Hurrying through the door to the infirmary, he eyes swept the room looking for the Inseparables. Porthos was sitting on a bed, propped up with pillows. D'Artagnan was on a nearby cot with his ankle wrapped and elevated. Aramis was sitting in a chair at the table with his left arm in a sling. Athos was in a third bed, between Porthos' and d'Artagnan and the Captain couldn't help thinking it was a strategic location that allowed his brothers to ensure he stayed put. Serge was also in the room handing around mugs of soup and refilling glasses with cool water.

Aramis rose and handed a glass of water to the Captain, who didn't realize how thirsty he was until the cool water hit his parched throat.

"When you are finished with that, strip so I can examine your wounds," Aramis demanded, then, as if remembering to whom he was speaking, he added, "Sir."

Treville cocked an eyebrow at him and was about to argue he was fine when he realized every eye in the place was resting on him. If he denied needing care and walked off, he would be violating the rule he constantly was trying to instill in these men, to be open about their injuries and get them treated. With a sigh, he nodded his acquiescence.

"And then you can eat with us," Aramis added, wondering how far he could push his luck. "After all, one can't recover without taking proper care of oneself."

After Treville was deemed cleared for duty by Aramis, and they had all eaten the food Serge had brought, they left the infirmary, even though the Captain was against the idea. However, the four Inseparables assured him they were all mobile enough to make it to Aramis' large room, which was big enough for all of them and more private, which would aid in their recovery. The Captain didn't fight them; as long as they stayed together they would watch out for each other.

He wasn't quite sure how they were all going to get up the stairs to Aramis' quarters. Athos appeared half-asleep already and d'Artagnan was practically hoping on one foot. But he knew his men and he knew they'd accomplish it. So, he bid them goodnight and headed for his own bed.

Once settled in Aramis' room, Athos swiftly drifted off to sleep while the others rehashed the day.

"Another one of the King's true love quest that ends in folly. I wonder if he got enough foxes for the Queen's coat he wanted to make," Aramis idly speculated as he sipped from a glass of wine he had poured after Athos went to sleep.

"It doesn't matter," d'Artagnan chimed in from the bed where he had his foot propped up once more. "Turns out, according to Constance, the Queen is allergic to fur. If she wore such a coat she'd break out in hives. Not a really good reaction to a true love gift."

"So this," Porthos waved a hand around the room indicating all their injuries, "was for nothing."

"Well we did get to watch ten lords leaping out of a burning building," Aramis said brightly. "Not something you see the nobility doing every day." The marksman looked over at the sleeping Athos. "Well, not most nobility."

"Sometimes, I can't imagine he was, is, a Comte," d'Artagnan declared as he yawned and stretched out his long limbs to go to sleep.

Porthos took the hint and made himself comfortable too.

A voice rose from the middle bed where they all thought Athos was asleep. "Technically, they are not Lords, but Comtes. And since I am, technically, still a Comte, there were eleven Comtes leaping not ten.

Aramis frowned and finished off his glass of wine before moving onto the double bed next to Porthos. "Where's the poetry in that? Comtes leaping. No. Ten lords-a-leaping sounds much better." With that, he blew out the last candle and they all settled in for the night.


	11. Chapter 11

TLQ 11

They heard the door slam, and looked upwards in time to see the angry Musketeer pound his way across the porch, down the stairs and through the courtyard heading towards the gate. He didn't spare a glance in their direction as he stalked by the table in the courtyard upon which they were perched. "Be ready to leave in 30 minutes," Athos barked as he flew by them.

A few seconds later they heard the squeak of the Captain's door again, the stomping of another set of boots against the wooden planks and heard the Captain bellow, "Athos, we are not done yet!"

There was no way Athos could have not heard the Captain's command; the entire garrison could have heard it. Serge could have heard it in the root cellar. But the swordsman marched onward, not breaking stride towards the garrison's gate without even a backwards glance over his shoulder.

The Captain didn't get angry often at his Lieutenant, and later he would admit it wasn't so much anger as frustration with the stubborn Musketeer. But he was riled now, so much so that he came bounding down the stairs into the courtyard to yell once more. "Athos. Stop. That's an order."

For those watching closely, this time there was a slight hitch in Athos' step, as if he considered stopping, but between one heartbeat and the next, it was gone and if anything, the man accelerated his pace, passing under the arched stonework of the gate, and disappearing from view.

"Damn you, Athos," the Captain swore softly, though d'Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos, who were sitting on the table could clearly hear him.

The three Musketeers exchanged worried glances, concerned at seeing their Captain in such a state, especially in regards to his Lieutenant and their friend and brother. They all had had their disagreements with the Captain over the years, but this appeared to be much more than a simple difference of opinion. Athos had knowingly, and there was no doubt in any of their minds it was deliberate, ignored a direct order from his Captain, a man he trusted and respected. It wasn't exactly unheard of for Athos to ignore a command on occasion, but he usually did it in a much subtler fashion. There was nothing subtle about this insubordination.

The Captain glared over at the three men sitting on the table in the early evening twilight. "You heard him, get ready," he growled. "And get off the table!" With that, he spun on his heel and disappeared back up the stairs and into his office, slamming the door behind him.

"I'd say our Captain is a little disappointed with our Athos. So, which one of you is going to go ask the Captain what is going on?" Aramis looked expectantly between d'Artagnan and Porthos.

D'Artagnan was already shaking his head. "Oh no, not me. I'm too new still. He'll drum me out of the Musketeers if I go disturb him."

"You've been here more than a year, almost two. You're young and stupid still. He'll forgive you," Aramis countered as he looked over at Porthos, who was nodding his head in total agreement.

"It hasn't been anywhere near two years and I'm not that stupid." The Gascon folded his arms stubbornly across his chest. "No way in hell I'm going up there."

Aramis sighed as he twisted to look over at Porthos, who was already shaking his head. "I ain't that stupid either. I can't remember ever seeing Athos and the Captain so publicly at odds with each other."

"True, this was rather public for our recalcitrant friend. So there is only one thing to do," Aramis declared as he slid off the table. "We'll badger him until he tells us."

D'Artagnan grimaced. "Oh, that's grand. Like he is any less scary than the Captain."

"Yes, but he can't fire us and there are three of us to one of him," Aramis cheerfully replied as Porthos joined them and they stood looking towards the gate. "Three on one, we should be able to handle Athos."

D'Artagnan peered at Porthos who waggled his hand and shrugged. "Fifty-fifty chance."

"Well, this sounds like great fun," d'Artagnan griped sarcastically to his companions. "Exactly , where are we going?"

"Another true love quest for the King. On the advice of his brother-in-law, Charles I, he has hired some special musicians to play for the Queen. Not sure what makes these musicians so unusual, but then again I haven't understood most of the King's gifts," Aramis confessed. "Geese, swans, ducks..."

"Hens," d'Artagnan corrected. "Five toed hens."

"Where are we supposed to meet these musicians?" Porthos asked.

"An Irish pub," Aramis brightly replied.

"We're going to Ireland?" d'Artagnan asked.

Aramis started towards the stables, and his brothers followed. "Oddly enough, there is here, on the outskirts of Paris, an Irish pub. They say the serving wenches are quite pretty."

"And you haven't personally confirmed that yet?" Porthos joked as they entered the stables.

"It's on my list," Aramis answered breezily as he collected his horse from the stable lad with a nod of thanks.

They led their mounts and Athos' Roger into the courtyard to wait. They looked over the contents of their saddlebags to ensure they were properly packed, then examined their horses, even though the garrison' stable lads did an excellent job taking care of the regiment's horses. Basically, they were killing time until Athos returned, and somehow, given their earlier chastisement from Treville, they felt it would not be wise to go sit on their favorite table again.

True to his word, Athos was back in the courtyard within the allotted time. It was difficult to determine what mood he was in, which for him was par for the course. The earlier outburst had not been the typical behavior of the stoic man. In silence, they mounted, rode out the gate and headed across Paris towards the pub.

"Odd that the King didn't send us to escort the musicians from Le Havre," d'Artagnan noted as they rode through the streets.

"He did. But they showed up early and made their way here on their own," Athos told them in clipped tones.

Thinking it was a good sign their leader was talking, Aramis ventured, "Why here?"

"They know the owner of the pub. We are to escort them to the Palace."

When they got to the tavern, Athos went inside to inquire as to the whereabouts of the musicians and found out they gone to one of the locale bath houses to make themselves presentable. The swordsman held his temper in check, thanked the owner, and told him they'd wait at the table in the corner for the musicians' return. Jimmy, the owner, said he'd send a couple of bottles of whiskey over for them, to make their wait more comfortable.

Athos went outside and informed his brothers of the delay, directed d'Artagnan to find a place to leave their mounts while they waited, then turned on his heel and marched back inside.

All three men, who had dismounted earlier, glanced worriedly at each other. "This isn't going to end well," Aramis foretold as he watched the annoyed Athos head back into the tavern.

Eventually, the three Musketeers slid into empty chairs at the table Athos had commandeered in the corner of the pub. They were somewhat dismayed to see an empty bottle in front of the swordsman and that he was already pouring from a second one. Once they were settled around the table, a ginger-haired serving wench brought them three more glasses and yet another bottle. With a wink, Aramis sent the server on her way while he filled the three glasses.

"Hey," Porthos grumbled as he looked at the glass Aramis slid in front of him. "You didn't fill mine all the way up." Peering closer at the liquid, he announced, "And this is funny looking wine."

"We are in an Irish pub. It's whiskey," the marksman scoffed as he lifted the glass to examine the amber liquid.

D'Artagnan picked up his glass of whiskey. "Haven't had whiskey before." He took a cautious sip and then pulled a face. "Are you sure this is not turpentine?"

"It grows on you," Aramis assured him as he sipped his own drink.

In the meantime, Athos had thrown back two more glasses of whiskey and was working on his next one, causing Aramis to frown at Porthos when he saw their brother's consumption rate.

"D'Artagnan, would you be so kind as to go ask the bartender if he has something to eat while we wait for our guests." Aramis' eyes never left Athos' face as he made his request in a pleasant tone, though one that left no room for argument.

The marksman heard the sound of the youngest Musketeer's chair scraping on the wood floor as he rose and left to seek the food. Once the Gascon was gone, Aramis laid into Athos. "You can't drink like that, Athos. Especially not on duty."

"I have decided you three can deal with this escort duty without my aid," the swordsman declared as he drank once more from his glass.

"The Captain sent you on this mission. You can't just not do it," Porthos argued, not understanding how a man with Athos' integrity could just decide not to follow the Captain's order. "That sounds a lot like insubordination to me."

Aramis reached across the table and grabbed Athos' wrist. His voice grew cold and hard. "I don't know what you and the Captain argued about. I don't know why you disobeyed his order in the courtyard, and again now. That is not the Athos I know, one who respects his Captain and I dare say considers him a friend."

Athos' dropped his eyes to the glass of whiskey in the hand currently being held captive by the marksman.

"I don't know what demon you are trying to fight here tonight, Athos, but for the love that I know you hold for us and that boy whom you are scaring, stop this now." Aramis released Athos' wrist and leaned back in his chair.

Athos' eyes stayed unusually hard and Aramis could see his speech wasn't having the desired effect, so he added, "So help me I will knock you out right now and Porthos will carry you back to the garrison and dump you in Treville's office."

Athos studied the brown eyes in front of him which were begging him to stop self-destructing. It scared him, the love he saw in those eyes, and in all the eyes of his brothers. "I am not fit to lead this mission tonight." Nor any other mission, he added silently. "Aramis, this is now your mission. I'm officially off-duty," Athos declared as he lifted the glass to his lips.

D'Artagnan arrived back at the table with two bowls of stew, which he set down. Immediately Porthos pulled one close to him. "What did I miss?" The Gascon could feel the tension in the air.

"Athos is not feeling well, so he has removed himself from duty. I'm now leading the mission."

Athos saluted the statement with the glass in his hand before taking another drink. D'Artagnan knew something was going on, but he was smart enough to go with the flow. He quietly sat down and after offering the second bowl of stew both to Aramis and Athos, who both declined, he went about eating himself, trying not to stare at his mentor, about whom he was concerned.

For the next hour things went smoothly. The four Musketeers sat around the table, three of them swapping stories in between flirting with the serving girls. Porthos was still hungry so he sent d'Artagnan to the bar for more food and to get a status report on the missing musicians.

Athos didn't say a word, merely stared at the table or his glass, but his brothers could tell he wasn't really seeing anything, that he was trapped in his own mind. At one point, Porthos spotted Athos unconsciously reaching for where the locket with the forget-me-not use to hang around his neck; the one he had torn off months ago after the capture and release of his murderous wife.

Porthos nudged Aramis and murmured in his ear, "He was reachin' for the locket. The one he threw away."

Aramis excused himself from the conversation he was having with the serving girl. "Really? How strange. He hasn't done that in months. Do you suppose he and Treville were fighting about her?"

Porthos shrugged. "Maybe. Treville can give Athos a run for his money when it comes to being close-mouthed."

Aramis sighed as he glanced over at the man, who silently brooded in his own world. "Won't be the first time we don't learn what is causing his pain, nor the last."

"Last what?" d'Artagnan questioned as he rejoined them and placed a few more plates of food on the table.

"Last time we send you to get food. You take too long," Porthos declared, grabbing one of the plates and pulling it closer to him.

"Jimmy, the owner, says the musicians are back from the bathhouse. But, before they can leave he promised they'd play a song for the crowd."

"Classy joint," the streetfighter mumbled as he dug into the new dish the Gascon had brought to the table. "Food's good."

A short while later a burly man strutted across the room to stand in between the two front windows of the tavern where there was a little empty floor space. D'Artagnan stared at the instrument he was carrying, if that is what it was. He reached over and poked Aramis in the ribs distracting him from chatting with the latest serving wench who was hanging about him.

"What kind of instrument is that?" he asked the marksman after he had his attention.

"That makes music?" Porthos frowned as he skeptically looked at the contraption in the man's arms. "Looks like a sack of sticks. And he's wearing a skirt?"

Sure enough, small sections of muscular-looking legs covered in dark brown hair were visible between the bottom of the so-called skirt and the top of the musician's boots.

Aramis settled back in his chair as he studied the musician, who honestly didn't look any of the ones Aramis had ever seen at the palace. This man was nearly as big as Porthos and definitely as broad and he had a toughness that was visible in the way he simply moved.

"Well, this should be interesting," Aramis predicted before he glanced over at Athos who was fairly drunk by his estimation. He decided after the entertainment was over, he'd get Porthos to take Athos back to the garrison while he and d'Artagnan escorted the musicians to the Palace..

The man with the strange looking instrument took a deep breath, then put his mouth to one of the pipes sticking out of the sack and blew. The sound that came forth was startling to many in the room. There was a droning bass and tenor sound coming from the bag along with a high-pitched, nasal whine that seemed to be playing the melody.

Athos, who had barely moved all evening, looked up sharply, his eyes wildly searching the room. "What the hell is that!" His bloodshot eyes narrowed as he focused on where the sound was originating.

"Dear Mother of God that has to stop." His hand shot out to grab the whiskey bottle. "Sorry," he apologized to Aramis as he raised the bottle to his lips. "But that," he jerked his head towards the droning bagpiper, "is intolerable."

Taking a large mouth full, Athos swallowed, then gasped as the fiery liquid burned down his throat. Rising, he gave his head a quick shake side to side and immediately regretted it. Grasping either side of the table with his hands, he bowed his head between his shoulders, closed his eyes and used his iron will to keep the contents of his stomach in place. "Their damn liquor is as bad as their music." Opening his eyes, he pushed off the table and began weaving his way across the room.

"This doesn't look promising," Aramis predicted when he determined in what direction Athos was heading. Quickly, the remaining three Musketeers rose to scurry after their fourth who was almost to his quarry.

The closer he got to the instrument of torture, the more it felt like red-hot daggers were stabbing his brain, his stomach had been set on fire, and he thought he might spontaneously combust. His original half-second thought to politely ask the musician to cease playing fled his mind. Instead, he stomped up to the man and cold-cocked him in the face with his fist. The instrument made its final wailing sound as it and its owner crashed to the floor.

Athos stood scowling at the man he decked, before realizing he was wearing a skirt and he was taken aback for a minute. Was he so drunk he'd hit a woman by mistake? If so, she was very unattractive, he thought uncharitably. By now, the other three Musketeers arrived and Porthos grabbed Athos by the arm and dragged him back a few steps, while d'Artagnan and Aramis went to help the musician to his feet.

"I'm sorry. My friend had too much to drink and I fear he has become a music critic," Aramis offered by way of an apology.

"That's not music," Athos snorted with distain. "It's a cat being stepped on by a horse."

"Ya don't appreciate my music," the musician accused as he shook off the hands of the Musketeers trying to help him.

"By no stretch of the imagination was that music," Athos retorted as he shook free from Porthos' hold.

"I take offense at those words. That happened to be my sainted granny's favorite tune. You owe me an apology." The man moved his instrument near the wall then stood, hands on his hips, waiting.

"I won't apologize for saving everyone's ears from that horrible racket. In fact," Athos declared warming to his subject, "it would be an act of kindness if I tossed that instrument of torture of yours into the Seine."

"And great, suddenly he has become a chatterbox," Aramis sighed dramatically as he rolled his eyes at his brothers.

"This is not going to end well." d'Artagnan tilted his head at the ten other men that had separated themselves from the crowd and were starting to encircle the four Musketeers.

"So you don't like my pipes," the man in the kilt said as he took a step nearer to Athos, who also took a step forward to meet him. "Though a man has the right to an opinion, yours is wrong and if you would be so kind as to step outside, I'll show you the error of your ways." The musician turned and headed for the door. "Are ya coming? I don't want to damage Jimmy's fine establishment."

"Your taste in taverns is as poor as your taste in music," Athos informed him as he followed the man outside, with Aramis, d'Artagnan and Porthos in tow.

"We're here to escort you to the Palace," Aramis pleaded as they stepped onto the dirt street in front of the tavern causing the musician to stop.

"You're the soldiers from the Palace?" Athos kept walking, but the musician glanced back at Aramis. "I'm Colin. Don't you like a good fight?"

"No, well yes, I actually do like a good fight, but…" Aramis fumbled not quite sure of the proper answer to the question.

"It's settled then," the musician walked towards the middle of the street where Athos had stopped and ran a practiced eye up and down him. "I hope there is more to ya then meets the eye, though," he added appreciatively as he rubbed his jaw, "ya have a hell of a right hook. My name is Colin. And whom do I have the pleasure of fighting?"

"Athos." the swordsman replied in kind.

Colin eyed the weapons on Athos' waist. "I prefer a good old bare knuckles fist fight to swords and pistols. After all, we are not enemies on the battlefield."

Athos' green eyes studied the man, then he slowly unbuckled his weapons belt and handed it to d'Artagnan. Being a gentleman, he even handed over the small knife he kept hidden in his boot.

Colin, when he saw the Musketeer remove the blade, gave a low whistle. "Nice. I promise, I have no hidden weapons. Just my wits and my fists."

Aramis tried to be the voice of reason once more. "Are you sure we can't just go back inside, have a drink, and forget this whole incident?"

"No. Athos, here, insulted the sacred instrument of Scotland," Colin declared, his voice showing his pride in his homeland.

"Scotland is hardly a country and the bagpipe is not an instrument," Athos felt he needed to clarify. "And your whiskey is awful too."

"You're one of those French wine lovers, aren't ya. Can't hold your hard liquor," Colin taunted, but Athos didn't rise to the bait.

"We make good brandies too," Athos drawled. "I'll offer you a glass after you wake from being knocked out by me." Athos wasn't so drunk that he hadn't noticed the ten men that had followed Colin out of the tavern. "Your men, will they stay out of this?"

"I could ask the same of yours, who are still armed. My boys aren't," Colin pointed out to the Musketeer.

Porthos stepped forward cracking his knuckles. "I don't need no weapons to wipe the street clean with your men."

"Oh great," d'Artagnan moaned shaking his head. "This is turning into a free-for-all."

As the Gascon turned to Aramis for support, he saw the man was unbuckling his weapons belt and laying it on the ground next to where Porthos had shucked his weapons. He looked at d'Artagnan and shrugged. "I do like a good fight."

Still shaking his head, the Gascon added his and Athos' weapons to the pile, as he muttered, "All for one and one for all."

Colin heard him, glanced in his direction and inquired, "Is that the motto of your clan?"

D'Artagnan gave him an easy smile as he came to stand by his brothers. "You could say so."

Colin turned his attention back to Athos, who was sobering as the cold wind blew down the street and swirled around him. "Shall we begin?"

This was all very strange and somewhat formal for a brawl, but Athos nodded to indicate he was ready. Colin rushed at him, arms wide open, bowled him over and then pressed him to the ground. Athos got leverage with his legs and flipped them onto their side, then tried to raise his right hand to land a punch to Colin's face, but it was blocked by the Scotsman's forearm.

D'Artagnan, Porthos, and Aramis found the ten-people closing in on them, but only some stepped up to fight while others hung back. The first person who attacked Porthos was quickly defeated and tossed aside by the streetfighter, who was grinning and growling, "Who's next?" This time two men broke from the group and the brawl was on once more.

A single fighter approached Aramis and the two combatants sized each other up, before throwing a few exploratory punches. Each landed a few body hits, but nothing causing major damage. Aramis used a move that Porthos had taught him, a combination roll, toss, and turn and his opponent hit the dirt with a resounding thump.

D'Artagnan frowned when his opponent stepped up and the man was taller and broader than Porthos. He made a valiant effort, but he soon found himself being hurtled through the air. He landed near Porthos who looked down at him between punches.

"I taught you better than that," Porthos grunted as he threw a roundhouse at one of his opponents. "Don't play his game. You can't out muscle him. Use your assets."

After delivering his lecture, as if to make his point he used a number of tricks he'd learned growing up in the street to defeat both of his opponents. He grinned at the Gascon for a moment while his enemies regrouped and came back as a trio. "Make me proud, boy!" Porthos roared as he eagerly met his next challenge.

D'Artagnan nodded before determinedly stalking back over to his opponent. "Let's try that again, shall we?" They started trading blows once more, but this time the Gascon used his speed and maneuverability to dance in and out of range while delivering some bruising blows.

Colin and Athos were also trading punishing blows. They were evenly matched, and taking turns dropping the other man to the dirt. Both men were sporting various cuts on their faces and there was no doubt tomorrow they would have equally impressive bruises. For all that they were savaging each other, neither was seriously injuring his opponent. It was almost like two boys wrestling for enjoyment, though they were a little rougher. At one point they knocked each other to the ground, rolled up into a seated position and simply sat, almost shoulder to shoulder, for a few minutes as they watched the rest of their men fight.

As Athos sat there, sobering after having burned off some of the alcohol coursing through his veins it dawned on him he was fighting the man he was supposed to escort to the Palace. First he had been insubordinate to his Captain, took himself off a mission so he could get drunk and now this, beating up the King's guest. Inadvertently, a groan escaped his lips.

Colin misinterpreted the moan. "Your men are doing a bonnie job defending themselves against my boys. My clan is renowned for our fighting skills," Colin proudly stated as he watched his men.

"These are your men?" Athos asked with curiosity as he wiped a trickle of blood off his cheek.

"Yes. Well they are not all my soldiers, but simply the ones that play on the battlefield."

"You're a soldier? I thought you were a musician." Athos' eyes swept the area, noting how well the men fought, with a free-spirited sort of discipline, not all that different from the Inseparables. "Your men fight well," he sincerely complimented Colin.

"As do yours. I'm glad they agreed to this little training exercise. My boys were really itching for a fight. "

Athos tilted his head and quirked an eyebrow. "This is how you normally train?"

"Aye. I mean we practice with swords and such too, but hand to hand is where we excel. Have to. Can't always afford good weapons," Colin honestly admitted to the Musketeer.

They sat quietly for a few moments as they watched Porthos toss another one of Colin's men to the ground. "Oh, he is good, he is. Don't suppose he'd want to come to Scotland. We could use a man like him. I think he and Gilbert would be a formidable pair."

"Gilbert?" Athos asked.

"The giant about to toss your youngest lad to the dirt."

Athos searched and found d'Artagnan as the giant named Gilbert held him aloft, spun him for fun once or twice and then tossed him to the ground. "Oh. Yes. He is built like Porthos." Athos watched as d'Artagnan climbed to his feet, regained his equilibrium and then went back to attack once more.

"Cheeky bunch you have there, Athos. My boys are enjoying testing your crew."

Athos' eyes narrowed and his voice grew hard. "Testing?'

"Absolutely. This is how we train. Improve. Look at your giant, Porthos you said?" Athos gave a brief nod. "He's now fighting four of my men and he still might win. The other one…"

"Aramis"

"Aramis is up to three, though he's flagging. I think he's at his limit. And the lad…"

"D'Artagnan."

The Scotsman had a little trouble wrapping his tongue around the name at first. "D'Artagnan, while only engaged against a single man, he is my best and no one bests him. We practice like this, fighting amongst ourselves, changing it up, pushing each other to their limits. It's fun to have others to do this to. Makes for variety." They watched as the Gascon bit the dust again, rose to his feet and advanced once more.

A small smile twitched in the corner of Athos mouth at his protégée's action. "D'Artagnan's real skills lie in his sword work. He can give me a good work out on some days," Athos said, not with self-pride, but with pride in his student.

"And you?" Colin turned and looked over at Athos. "What's your claim?"

Athos delivered his statement as a fact with no hint of bragging. "I have yet to find my equal with a sword."

"Might have to take you up on that someday." Colin struggled to climb to his feet, as did Athos and they ended up leaning on each other for support. Once they were both vertical, they stepped apart and eyed each other. "Shall we finish this then? I'm still defending my bonnie country and music."

Athos knew this was wrong, but he had made so many incorrect choices in his life, what was another one. "Not to mention your granny," Athos deadpanned. "And your horrible whiskey."

"Oh, aye, that too, God rest her soul."

Colin threw the first punch and Athos quickly countered. Their fight quickly became heated once more and they went all out to try to knock the other out.

D'Artagnan, who was on the ground again catching his breath, heard a sound which he first attributed to a ringing in his ears from being slammed to the ground so much. Then he realized it was hoofbeats. Looking down the street he saw a familiar sight. "Red Guards!" he screamed.

Everyone, other than Colin and Athos stopped for a moment in their fighting. "What's a Red Guard?" one of the Scotsmen asked.

"The men who are going to put you in jail if they catch you," Aramis told him as he spun to find his brothers. He spotted both and yelled, "Time to go!"

Colin and Athos were throwing tired, sloppy punches and by a quirk of fate, they connected with each other in a simultaneous fashion that knocked them both out cold and spiraled them to the ground.

"And there we go. Fights over. It's a draw." Aramis declared, seeing the two leaders crumbling to the dirt. "Porthos, if you'd be so kind as to grab Athos and take him," he looked at their crumbled leader in the dirt, "somewhere Treville won't see him like that."

The marksman glanced over at the eleven musicians who were in definite need of another bath. He couldn't take them to the Palace looking like that. Glancing back at Porthos, Aramis continued, "Then seek out Treville and tell him as it is so late, the musicians will spend the night with their cousin and we shall escort them to the Palace in the morning and be back before muster. And for God's sake make sure Athos' shows up at muster."

Porthos hurried over picked up his brother and their weapons and headed for where they had left the horses. Aramis and d'Artagnan gathered their own weapons, had Gilbert pick up Colin and then ushered the fighters back into the tavern. They spread out amongst the tables, looking like they'd been there all night drinking.

The Red Guards arrived in front of the tavern to find an empty street and after looking inside, could find nothing amiss, so they left.

"Well, so far so good," Aramis declared as the guards left.

The Captain walked up and down the lines, as was his habit, as he handed out the assignments of the morning. When he got to the four Inseparables, all of whom had made it to the muster in time, he squinted at them in the morning light. He started with d'Artagnan and slowly made his way to halt in front of his Lieutenant.

"You look like crap," the Captain bluntly stated as he noted the cuts on Athos' cheek surrounded by a nice purpling bruise. The perceptive leader also noted that his Musketeer's eyes held more than the pain of a simple hangover. Athos was the champion of weathering the after-effects of a night's drinking. This was physical pain of another nature.

Standing inches from his battered Lieutenant's face, he accused, "You've been fighting. Am I going to hear about your exploits from the Cardinal or the King?"

Athos' eyes remained focused on the horizon as he answered, "No."

"Do you realize, as my Lieutenant, you are supposed to set an example for the rest of the men. You disappoint me, Athos."

It was rare for the Captain to scold his second in front of the rest of the men, and the swordsman dropped his eyes in humiliation to stare at the ground. Athos knew he deserved every bit of the Captain's ire for he had let things get way too far out of hand last night. The Comte was deeply ashamed of his own actions.

"Was this fight driven by yesterday's conversation?" Treville demanded, as he took a step backwards and folded his arms across his leather-clad chest.

If he were to be truthful, last night's fight had been spurred by the argument he and Treville had had yesterday. Perhaps it had been an unconscious act on Athos' part to prove to Treville he was wrong. Drinking while on duty. Starting fights in taverns. Had his actions been driven by fear because of the trust Treville wanted to place in him? Athos felt his demons would never totally leave him and therefore he shouldn't be trusted to lead anyone.

Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the ground, Athos quietly, and honestly, answered, "Yes."

Athos was startled to feel Treville's hand on his shoulder in what felt like a compassionate manner. The swordsman lifted his green eyes to meet those of his commander and he was surprised to see not anger, but understanding. "Some things scar you for life, but, Athos, you can't let them destroy you."

With a final pat, the Captain removed his hand and moved to stand in front of all his Musketeers and hand out the daily assignments. The four Musketeers found they were on guard duty at the Palace.

"The King has hired performers to entertain his Queen and his guests. I believe it is another one of his..." The Captain hesitated not wanting to repeat the name the Inseparables had been using in front of the entire regiment, so he simply finished, "gifts. You four," he gestured to the Inseparables, "will ride to the Palace with me in an hour." With that, Captain Treville left the courtyard to return to his office to attend to some of his never-ending paperwork.

After Treville left, Athos slunk over to their table, plopped on the bench and dropped his head on his folded arms on the table's top. The other three slowly headed that way, but before they were within Athos' hearing range, d'Artagnan whispered, "Do you think Athos has realized that he beat up the leader of the King's latest true love gift for the Queen?"

"No, I don't think so," Porthos said. "He's barely functioning this morning even for him."

"Well, I guess we could tell him," Aramis stated as he drew near the table. "Athos…"

"Go to hell."

"Or maybe we shall let him be surprised," Aramis addressed his brothers, not appreciating Athos' sullen attitude.

A few hours later, the Musketeers were at the Palace, had the room the King was using for his surprise secured, and the guests were coming in and seating themselves. The King's and Queen's thrones were placed perpendicular to the 'stage' so the Royal couple could see both the audience and the performers.

The four Musketeers had spread out around the room in strategic locations, Captain Treville by the King's left side, Porthos and Aramis flanking the entrance, and D'Artagnan by the Queen's right side, though Aramis would have preferred that detail. Finally, Athos stood on the side of the room, opposite the thrones where he could scan the door, audience, and the whole room for threats.

The audience rose as one as the King and Queen entered the room, followed by the Cardinal and a few of her Majesty's hand-maidens. Once everyone had resettled, the King walked to center stage. "I have been told of musicians that play a most unusual instrument that is used both to entertain as well as encourage warriors on the battlefield. And so, I have brought this troop of eleven men here today, all the way from Scotland, for the pleasure of my Queen."

Athos finally put two and two together and his inscrutable face, for once, could be read by anyone who happened to be looking his way, which was his brothers after they heard the King's announcement. "Dear, God, no," Athos muttered.

"And now he knows," Aramis said a bit too cheerfully to Porthos.

With a clap of his hands, the King summoned the performers as he took his seat. Suddenly, there was a mighty wailing ringing through the room as eleven bagpipers began to play as they entered and marched up the aisle. It was a question which shocked the audience more, the wailing music or eleven men marching in skirts through the room. The musicians made their way to the stage area where they executed a precision turn to face the audience, never missing a beat.

Athos stood like a stunned deer, staring at the eleven pipers piping, so much so that Aramis gestured to d'Artagnan to go over to Athos and get him to refocus. D'Artagnan moved to his mentor's side, poked him discreetly in the ribs and hissed in his ear, "Athos!" It took a few more discreet pokes before he saw his friend coming out of his fugue. "Athos. Get hold of yourself."

The King leaned over to Treville and shouted, "Aren't they marvelous! And do you know they actually wear those skirts, they call them kilts, into battle! Can you imagine that?"

The truth of the bagpipes is people either love them or hate them and there is very little middle ground. The King was certainly in the love camp while the Cardinal was definitely in the hate camp. The poor Queen was trying to find that allusive middle ground, but it was a slippery slope leaning towards hate. Treville was also on the edge of the hatred camp, though he was enough of a military tactician to understand their place, though hearing eleven of them in person, he wondered if what he had heard, that they were used to encourage soldiers on the battlefield was really true. He thought it was more likely they were used to distract and drive the enemy crazy.

Finally, Athos managed to get hold of himself, though it was very tough. The wailing was making his head throb as well as every bruise and bone in his body. He wanted simply to run, preferably screaming, from the room. One in the tavern had been horrible enough, but with a hangover, eleven was nothing short of sheer torture. Only his protégée's hand on his elbow was keeping him grounded.

"Athos. Get hold of yourself. Treville and the Cardinal are looking at us!"

And it was true, both men were staring at the normally unflappable Musketeer who appeared close to having a meltdown. The Cardinal made a mental note that maybe he'd finally found something with which to break the troublesome Musketeer.

Treville discovered that Athos' eyes kept darting to the leader of the bagpipe clan, so the Captain took a hard look at the man. It was interesting to note that the lead piper seemed to be sporting some cuts and bruises himself, somewhat a mirror of Athos. Treville didn't know how or why, but he had the funny feeling he now knew with whom his Musketeers had been brawling. He switched his gaze back to Athos, to see if the man had control of his emotions yet.

The King, noting his two advisors were not focusing on the eleven pipers, followed their gazes to the struggling Musketeer. "I say, Captain, is your man alright?"

The Cardinal, never one to let an opportunity go by to make the Musketeers look foolish, leaned over and inquired, "He's not going to attack them, like he did that innocent witness at the witch trial, is he?"

Treville's eyes switched from Athos to the insidious face of the Cardinal. Any type of conversation while the bagpipers were playing was nearly impossible, but the Captain strove to get his comment heard. "Athos attacking unprovoked is as ludicrous as you plotting against the Queen."

The two adversaries glared at each other, their points to each other made. "I'm sure you are right, Captain. It must be these bagpipes. Hard to believe anyone would find them inspirational on the battlefield," the Cardinal remarked as he focused back on the band.

The Cardinal's comment made the King forget his question to Treville for the moment. "Cardinal. You don't like the pipers? I find it all quite exhilarating."

"I'm sure his Majesty is a much better judge of music than I," Richelieu groveled with a little bow.

"Quite right. Perhaps we should add a piper or two to France's regiments, to inspire the men in battle."

The two adversaries were suddenly on the same side as the Prelate and the Captain simultaneously blanched. "I'm sure France's meager coffers could be better spent elsewhere Sire. Perhaps new Royal flags. Men find flags very inspirational, isn't that right Captain Treville."

Treville, who didn't want any bagpipers anywhere near his regiment hastily agreed. "Yes, men find flags very uplifting and the enemy finds them…" the soldier struggled for a word, "…daunting."

Athos, though extremely pale, managed to wipe the look of abject horror off his face as the first tune came to a rousing conclusion. There was a moment of silence before the King began to clap enthusiastically and the rest of the audience, who certainly weren't going to insult their ruler, joined in the vigorous clapping. To Athos' aching head this was adding insult to injury.

Colin looked around the room and spotted Athos and d'Artagnan on the side by the windows and he smiled in recognition. A quick scan of the room located the other two soldiers. Musketeers. France's famed soldiers. No wonder they fought so well last night. He knew that they were soldiers, but had not realized they were members of the famous Musketeers. In the daylight, he could see the pauldrons on their shoulders that he'd missed in the murky light last night.

With a grin at Athos, who no doubt like himself, was feeling the after-effects of their fight, along with what Colin imagined was a roaring headache, the band leader launched into the song he'd been playing in the tavern last night.

Even though Athos was not a fan of the pipes, he was musically enough inclined to recognize it was the same song from last night and a taunt by Colin. Somehow, that helped bring him back to his senses, and he straightened his posture and snapped his mask of neutrality back in place. He'd suffered worse, maybe, but he'd be damn if he'd show weakness in front of his bagpiping nemesis.

Athos suddenly realized d'Artagnan was standing next to him and it made him swiftly appreciate how far out of control he must have been if his brother had felt the need to leave his post and come to his aid. Athos was not pleased that he'd let himself become that vulnerable, that exposed, in such a public setting. He took some of his irritation at himself out on d'Artagnan.

"Why have you abandoned your post?" he demanded of his protégée. Before the lad could open his mouth, Athos gruffly ordered, "Return immediately before Treville notices your dereliction of duty." The swordsman watched as d'Artagnan slunk back to his former post and he swore he'd make it up the Gascon later, somehow.

After the exhibition, the audience cleared the room, along with the Queen and her ladies, the Queen declaring she was fatigued by the festivities and needed to rest. Treville and the Musketeers remained behind to guard the King as did the Cardinal, who was afraid if he left Louis alone with the bagpipers his Majesty might do something stupid, like hire them.

In the forthright manner of a Scotsman, Colin remarked to the King, "So these are your famed Musketeers, your Majesty." His eyes swept the Captain and the four Inseparables. "I hear they are one of the best fighting forces in France."

"The best," the King corrected him. "That is why they guard me."

Colin offered a little bow to indicate his mistake.

"Your men have quite the reputation of being fine warriors too. Though I do find your uniform in strange taste," the King observed.

"Sire, you fail to see the practical nature of this garment. It is not like a lady's skirt. This is one wrapped piece of material. It can be undone to serve as a blanket at night on the trail. When fording shallow rivers, your leggings don't get wet. Or stuck in the brambles. Cool on a hot day."

"You don't find them hampering in fighting?" the Cardinal asked, despite his intention to stay out of this conversation.

"Oh no, we take them off when we go into battle. Just wear our linen shirts," Colin proudly informed him.

"I see," the Cardinal said, in a manner that clearly said he did not see at all. "I'm sure that is ever so much better."

"What about riding?" The King asked, still fascinated by the idea of the kilts. "Isn't it uncomfortable."

Colin and his men laughed at that thought. "Oh aye. I cannot imagine developing the necessary callouses there. No, we wear our trews when riding, though we don't have many fine horses like France. Mainly a few scrub ponies. We fight on our own two feet and are the fiercest foe you'll ever face."

"Well, let's hope it never comes to that," Richelieu said with hopes of getting this conversation moved on to a better topic, or ended so he could leave. "Sire, perhaps you should go check on the Queen and let these nice men be on their way. It is a long trip back to Scotland.'

"Yes, you are quite right." With that, the King turned and left the room with the Cardinal trailing close behind. "See our guests out would you Treville," the Prelate said over his shoulder.

The five Musketeers and the eleven pipers stood, staring at each other.

"Out of curiosity, since I wasn't aware of your arrival, how did you get to Paris?" Treville asked with interest.

"Believe it or not, I know some people in Paris. Jimmy, who owns the Saucy Sow…"

"…an Irish pub," Aramis helpfully supplied.

"…knows a fellow from the palace who knows a fellow who books entertainers for the King. He put in a word for us and seems the King was looking for new ways to entertain his Queen. The money was good and we don't currently have a war to fight, so here we are!" he said with a flourish. With a mischievous grin, he added, "And how are you, Athos, this bonnie afternoon?"

"I'm sure I'm as fine as you are, Monsieur," Athos replied with his courtly manners.

"So you do know each other. I thought you might have met," Captain Treville remarked with a smug grin. "Would these be the people you weren't fighting with last night, Athos?"

Rightly sensing Athos' Captain might not approve of his men's activities last night, Colin stepped over and draped a casual arm over Athos' shoulder. To his credit, the swordsman managed not to flinch. "I met your fine men in Jimmy's establishment last night and Athos here and I to got talking military strategies, fighting styles, how to train, you know, soldier talk."

"It would seem, looking at you two, that there was a demonstration or two," the Captain remarked drily as he swept them both with his piecing blue eyes.

"Aye, well ya know how that goes. Sometimes tis easier to show than explain," Colin glibly remarked as he dropped his arm from the Musketeer's shoulder. "Your men, all of them, are one set of mean fighters. Eleven to four and they were holding their own. Who's knows how'd it ended if them blokes in the red capes didn't show up."

Captain Treville rounded on Athos. "I thought you said I wouldn't be hearing about this from the King or the Cardinal, Athos."

The Comte shrugged as he calmly replied, "You won't. They didn't see us."

"One day, Athos, we need to have a talk about your perception of the truth." Athos, to his credit, did look away and appeared uncomfortable that his commander had caught his lie of omission.

"What are your plans, gentlemen?" Treville asked Colin and the rest of his men.

"Nothing much, Captain. We'll be heading back to Jimmy's for tonight and then back to the coast in the morn to head home."

Treville nodded his head to show he understood before he gestured for them to follow as he led them out of the Palace. "Safe journey," he wished once they were outside.

"Thank you," Colin replied to the Captain before turning to Athos. "Any chance of you and your brothers visiting us later for drink? We still have your claim to explore."

"What claim, Athos," the Captain growled at his Lieutenant.

"I may have mentioned I am a skilled swordsman at some point last night," Athos declared in a dry manner.

"I believe the word was undefeated," Colin goaded. "I'd like to take a stab at that, so to speak."

Captain Treville smiled rather smugly. "I can assure you, Monsieur, you don't want to explore that particular claim."

"Oh, but I do. I'm a Scotsman. We like bringing down legends."

In his mind's eye Treville could see an unsupervised dual between his Lieutenant and this Scot somehow morphing into a disaster that had him front and center before the King. Deciding to stave off the catastrophe before it began, he said, "I'm afraid my men will not be leaving the garrison tonight."

The disappointed look on Colin's face as well as Athos' was amusing. While the Comte might not exactly brag about his prowess with a sword, he also wasn't remiss in proving it every chance he got.

"How about this. You and your men come back to the garrison with us. We'll give you a tour, soldier to soldier. And a meal. And then if you happen to have a few moments before you leave, and you'd like a little sword instruction, I'm sure my Lieutenant would be happy to oblige."

"You're a bonnie man, Captain. We accept the offer."

The sixteen men headed back to the garrison for a spirited afternoon. It ended up being a friendly competition between the Musketeers in the garrison and the Scotsmen. Overall, hand-to-hand combat went to the piper warriors who were much more experienced in that style of fighting. Only Porthos remained undefeated and in the end, the final match between him and Gilbert, their best man, was called as a draw. However, the first point in the unofficial competition went to the visitors.

Next they switched to marksmanship where the Musketeers, naturally, took the day. As a regiment, skilled in the use of pistols, this was no surprise. Aramis led the Musketeers to a resounding victory and the first point for the home team. They also did a few rounds of knife throwing as well as axes, where it was an even spilt. The Scots were much more accurate with throwing an axe while the Musketeers excelled with the knife.

The final event of the unofficial contest was swords, where surprisingly, the warrior pipers held their own, defeating many a Musketeer. In the end, Aramis, D'Artagnan and Athos remained on one side and Colin, James and Andrew on the other. Aramis was defeated by Andrew while d'Artagnan won over James.

Finally, the match everyone had been waiting for had arrived. Colin and Athos, both men stripped to their shirt sleeves despite the chill in the air. Both knew they'd be warm soon enough. They also declined the use of padded practice gear. The agreement to first blood was quickly established and they began their duel.

Both men started slow, testing their opponent's skills. Athos soon figured out while Colin was a better hand-to hand fighter than he, and they were about equally matched at marksmanship, Athos had the edge with swords. Colin was good, very good, but Athos was simply better. The Musketeer was enjoying a good workout against a highly skilled opponent, so he let opportunities to end the duel pass by. He didn't sense any danger and this simply was fun.

Finally, Athos found he was tiring, as was Colin, and instead of risking an unintentional serious injury by either of them, he ended the fight by marking Colin's shoulder, his favorite spot. Colin took his defeat with good graces for he wasn't stupid either and knew early on that Athos was the better swordsman. The Scot had been enjoying the workout as much as the Musketeer and he had learned a few new moves from Athos.

With a bow, Colin claimed, "You maintain your reputation as best swordsman."

"Not best. Only undefeated," Athos said with a small quirk of his lips.

Serge out did himself with a meal they all heartily enjoyed before the eleven pipers, not piping, returned to the Saucy Sow. Good as his word, Treville restricted the four Musketeers to the garrison for the night, so they met in Aramis' room to celebrate in private.

"As true love quest go, this one wasn't so bad," d'Artagnan declared as he looked up from his hand of cards.

Aramis did a draw before making a discard. "Eleven pipers piping…and fighting. Quite the combination."

Athos took Aramis's discard and then added his own. "They did turn out to be admirable warriors, but their taste in musical instruments needs improvement."

"You never did say what you and the Captain were fightin' about the other day." Porthos laid all his cards on the table face up and grinned as he took all the money in the center of the table.

Athos folded his cards into a neat pile and laid them on the table. "We fought about…my wife…my life choices…and my future."

"Your future is here, with us, as it always has been," Aramis declared, and was seconded by d'Artagnan and Porthos bringing a small genuine smile to Athos' face.

* * *

 _A/N: And for the record, I am in the love bagpipe side._


	12. Chapter 12

_**A/N: Last tale of the series. However, you get to choose which version you prefer. The stories are alike except for a role switch in the latter half of the story. If you are a d'Artagnan fan then try this version. If you are a Porthos fan, try TLQ 13. Otherwise they are exactly the same.**_

* * *

TLQ 12

The four Musketeers strolled through the gardens to where the two small pavilions had been erected next to each other. Under one expanse of material stood twelve metal objects set in a wide semi-circle. A few of the last rays of sunshine of the day crept under the open-sided tent, striking the objects and making their copper sides gleam.

"Are those drums?" d'Artagnan questioned as he walked over to examine them.

As usual when it came to these types of questions, all eyes turned to Athos for an answer as he was the most educated of them. The swordsman strolled over and ran a gloved hand over the copper sides before bouncing two fingers off the top of the tightly stretched skins making it emit a tone. Using his other hand, he bounced two fingers off the next one over and it emitted a different tone.

"Kettle drums. Sometimes used in pairs, mounted on horses." Running a finger over the edge of the top onto the side lip, he found the fastener he suspected was there since these drums were stationed on the ground. "These particular drum skins can be tightened or loosened to change the pitch allowing for variety in sound. Some nobility used to travel with a pair of these drums and a trumpeter to demonstrate their… importance."

"So twelve stuck up nobles have left their drums in the King's garden?" Porthos asked facetiously, gazing at the kettles.

While d'Artagnan moved along in front of the twelve drums, tapping each to make it sound its tone, Athos moved to stand next to Porthos and Aramis. Ignoring Porthos' comment, he continued his lecture, "Drums have been used on the battlefields to send signals..."

"Better than bagpipes," Porthos inserted with a smirk at his friends.

"… and some early civilizations set them up as relay messaging and warning systems since the sound can travel a great distance. Now that the drums have the ability to vary pitches, they are being used in orchestras." Porthos gave him and odd look and Athos shrugged. "I read."

Porthos glanced around the snowy gardens then sighed. "So this is another one of the King's true love quests."

"Yes. The King has arranged another concert for the Queen and the heir-to-be." The marksman studied the drums for a few moments. "Do you suppose the child in the Queen's womb will be able to hear the drums?"

D'Artagnan, who had rejoined them, grimaced. "If the baby heard the bagpipe concert, the child may decide never to emerge."

Athos couldn't hide his smile at his protégée's witticism. As open minded as he tried to be, the bagpipes still tended to rub him wrong. Though to be fair, he'd only had the pleasure of hearing them with a hangover. Perhaps clear-headed they wouldn't seem quite so wailing.

Porthos stomped his feet in the snow while he rubbed his hands together to generate heat. "I can't believe the Captain has us out here on guard duty all night protecting these things. Who'd want to steal a drum? They are not particularly small or easy to hide."

"In actuality, we are to patrol the whole of the Palace grounds," Athos corrected as he tucked his scarf tighter around his neck to help against the wind's chill.

"This feels like a punishment to me, not a quest," Porthos groused as he eyed the kettle drums with distaste. "All night, in the cold, watching drums. We've pissed the Captain off somehow."

"This is simply an assignment to patrol the entire Palace grounds," Athos reiterated to his friends before adding, "that may or may not be related to the Captain's displeasure with Aramis."

Me?" the marksman protested with indignation. "What did I…"

Athos tilted his head at his brother, quirked an eyebrow and gave him _that_ look.

A sheepish grin appeared on Aramis' face as he reached up and smoothed the ends of his moustache. "Oh. That. How was I to know she was the Cardinal's long lost niece."

Porthos reached over and smacked the marksman in the arm. "Do you ever learn? I should have figured this was your fault."

"And how do you know," Aramis offered as another explanation, "this is not your fault? I recall a certain gentleman who was talking to the Captain about being cheated in a card game the other night when you happened to be in the Wren."

Now it was Porthos turn to look uncomfortable. "Yeah, I'd forgotten about that. But he was so inept I can't believe he knew I was cheating." The streetfighter saw d'Artagnan and flipped the blame in his direction. "This assignment is lover boy's fault because he has been pestering Constance so much that the Queen, herself, complained to Treville."

"The Queen did not complain," d'Artagnan defended himself until all his brothers' eyes stared at him with skepticism, so he added an addendum. "She simply suggested that absence makes the heart grow fonder." D'Artagnan turned his gaze on Athos. "And I suppose you're innocent of all wrong doing?"

Athos folded his arms across his chest and coolly stared at his protégée. His whole attitude said 'do tell'. Silence settled over the garden with the youngest Musketeer wisely deciding to keep his mouth shut.

"D'Artagnan, Aramis together. Porthos with me. We'll check in every hour by the swan pond," Athos ordered his men. "Keep alert."

After four hours, Athos rotated the teams, pairing d'Artagnan with Porthos and Aramis with him. After the midnight bell, snow began to fall at a fairly steady rate. As Athos and Aramis swung by the drums on their rounds Aramis pondered, "Given the time of year, I wonder why the King arranged the concert to be outside."

"Maybe he learned his lessons with bagpipers and enclosed spaces," Athos suggested drily.

"Well at least someone made a nice fire pit," Aramis noted as they walked past the area. "Should help keep them warm."

The fire pit was located between the drummers and where the audience was to sit and it would be interesting to see if the smoke became an issue. Technically, there was about five feet between the two pavilions, but whether the fire and wind would cooperate remained to be seen.

"I wonder if they built it too close to the metal drums. Copper is a very good conductor of heat. Might make it uncomfortable for the drummers," Athos speculated as he thought about the placement of the pit, the size, and the amount of wood stacked within its borders.

"Copper conducting heart. Another fact you read in a book?" Aramis goaded lightly, knowing his friend was very well educated and seemed to retain much of what he read.

The sound of Athos snorting drifted through the night. "No, this knowledge was gained in a more intimate manner. We had copper pots in the kitchen. When I was small, I stumbled into a hot one. It was an enlightening and unforgettable experience. I believe the cook was making chicken soup in it," he added wryly.

"How many toes did the chicken have?" Aramis asked with a laugh. "I hear the best soup is made with five-toed chickens."

The four Inseparables met up by the swan pond for their last check in of the night.

"Wonder if the swans are happy?" Porthos asked as he watched the white blobs he assumed were the swans through the falling snowflakes.

Athos thought about the swans and the idea of freedom. "By now, their feathers have grown back so they could simply fly away if they wanted, but something keeps them here. Acceptance. Food. Companionship. Soulmates." For a moment, he realized he could be describing why the Inseparables were Musketeers.

"I guess it's alright if they want to stay and are not being held captive," Porthos declared as one who had once experienced slavery and appreciated what freedom was like afterwards.

"Let's move out. Our replacements should be here shortly after dawn," Athos declared as he indicated with a nod of his head that d'Artagnan should come with him this round.

The two walked in silence for a long while as the sky slowly lightened.

"I'm sorry I slept with your wife, Athos." the Gascon blurted out as they patrolled the grounds.

Why was it that dark, snowy nights seemed to bring out the need for confession in people Athos wondered? That whole debacle was ancient history in Athos' mind and best left buried. Why was the boy dragging it up?

"I mean if it was Constance, I'd be, well, furious."

"But you are sleeping with Constance, even though she is married to another."

D'Artagnan was taken aback for a moment, having never quite thought of it like that. "Well, it's different. Constance doesn't love her husband, nor does he love her. She's going to leave him."

"I see no difference then," Athos stated as they walked through the snowy night. "Anne and I were not together. You just happened along and got caught in one of her webs."

The Gascon peered over in the pre-dawn gloom at his mentor, but it was still too dark to see his face clearly, not, since it was Athos, that it was likely his face would give anything away. "But you still love her I think."

"I'm not discussing this with you," Athos warned in a low, steady voice that meant business. With that he stalked off into the darkness.

Few minutes later they came back to the Palace and found Porthos and Aramis waiting for them with their replacements. Their two friends didn't look very happy.

"Treville wants us back on guard duty for the concert. We're to get some food and a few hours sleep and return here before noon," Porthos informed his leader as he and d'Artagnan approached.

They collected their horses and headed back to the garrison, though Athos might as well not have been within a mile of them for he built an invisible, but obvious, wall about himself. He didn't look at his brothers, interact with them on any level and once back in the garrison, immediately disappeared to his room. The other three went to grab some food before heading to their own rooms for a quick nap.

At the appointed time, Athos showed up in the courtyard, still not really acknowledging their presence, and they rode back to the Palace in silence. Once their horses were stabled, they met up with Treville and the other Musketeers on duty. Treville noticed a tension in the Inseparables, but he didn't have time to ponder upon it. He handed out assignments to have eight of the Musketeers, including Porthos, Athos, d'Artagnan and Aramis patrolling the grounds around the concert site and another eight Musketeers standing guard around the pavilions holding the drums and the audience. Given the tension with the Inseparables, Treville decided to keep them further away from the King and Cardinal.

The eight Musketeers guarding the King and Queen's pavilion took up their positions, two on each side, except the side facing the drummers where the fire pit was located. Those two Musketeers spilt and stood on either side, but quite a way back from the fire. The Captain was at the King's left side when the Royal party and their guests emerged from the Palace and made their way over the shoveled pathways to the pavilion. About six inches of snow had fallen over night and the servants had been shoveling paths through the pristine whiteness.

The eight Musketeers patrolling the grounds had no paths shoveled for them, but eventually, they started to tramp down their own eight individual paths as they circled the grounds. Athos was perfectly content with this individual assignment as he pushed the conversation with d'Artagnan to the back of his mind. His brothers glanced at him whenever their orbits passed near, but he always found some other place, besides their faces, to look.

The twelve drummers took up their positions, backs to the Palace and facing the King and Queen. A small number of other musicians joined them with various wind instruments and stood to one side of the drummers. The conductor joined his orchestra, awkwardly debating where to stand as the roaring fire was immediately in front where he would have normally positioned himself. Finally, he settled for near the wind section of his band.

A hush fell over the crowd as the maestro raised his hands and the drummers held their sticks aloft in preparation. As his hand dropped one by one the drummers started up a drum roll until all twelve drummers were beating the pattern. From there they went on to a series of demonstrations of the drums' versatility. By the time this first part was done, the copper drums, thanks to the blazing fire, were heating up and causing the drummers to break out in a sweat. However, the musicians gamely pressed on and moved to playing melodies with the rest of the instruments present. The conductor gave his drummers a slightly odd look as he thought their drumming sounded a bit flatter than usual, but the King and his audience seemed pleased so he moved on.

Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan admitted Athos' knowledge earlier had been spot on, for while they couldn't hear the wind instruments as they patrolled the snowy grounds, they were able to distinguish the drums, especially the ones with the deepest tonal sound. They could almost feel the bass notes at times reverberating in their bones.

Suddenly, there was a noise that was not part of the planned music, three gun shots followed by the sound of an explosion. The eight Musketeers patrolling the grounds had begun to sprint towards the King's pavilion where the sound of the explosion originated. Knowing fairly well what the target was, they turned and tried to locate the shooters. Small puffs of smoke gave away the location, which was on a flat portion of the palace roof. How the shooters got up there in this snowy weather was a mystery. The eight Musketeers pulled out their pistols and fired at the men on the roof, but the distance was too great for mere handguns with none of the bullets finding their mark.

The commander in Athos took over as he yelled out instructions to the Musketeers. "Henri, Allan, George, Guillaume, Aramis go to Treville at the pavilion. Porthos, d'Artagnan, with me. Let's catch those bastards."

Before the words were out of his mouth, the sound of gun fire came from the roof again followed by the sound of two more explosions.

"Go!" Athos screamed as he took off running towards the Palace with d'Artagnan and Porthos on his heels.

"Dear God," Aramis prayed as he grabbed for his cross as he and the rest of the Musketeers ran for the pavilion where plumes of black smoke were rising into the frosty air. The area was in chaos with people on the ground and others milling about like sheep. Treville was organizing a protective shield of Musketeers around the downed monarchs on the ground. When he saw Aramis, he waved him over.

"The Queen? The King?" Aramis cried out as he saw the two prone bodies on the carpet that had been laid in the pavilion.

"Stunned I think. By the force of the blast. The damn drums blew up! See if you think we should move them."

Aramis knelt on the ground next to their majesties and gave them a quick examination, agreeing with his Captain's assessment. The medic Musketeer glanced over at the Cardinal who was being helped to his feet by another Musketeer. "Are you alright your Eminence?"

"Yes," he said as he regained his footing and smoothed out his robes. "The King?"

Aramis climbed to his feet and he and the Cardinal joined Treville. "The risk of leaving them out here, exposed, with the shooters on the loose, is greater than moving them I believe. I think you are right, they are only stunned," Aramis declared.

"I agree we need to move them immediately," Cardinal Richelieu declared as he looked to Treville to make it happen.

The King began to stir and the Cardinal quickly moved to his side to reassure him. "You are safe my King, as is the Queen, but we need to get you inside quickly. The Musketeer will carry you, Sire."

"I don't need to be carried. I can walk," Louis stated. As he rolled to his knees, he saw where his Queen lay unmoving. "Anne!" he cried.

"Unconscious, your Majesty. But not harmed," Treville said as he moved to the King's side and encouraged him to get on his feet. With a nod of his head, he gestured for Aramis to pick up the Queen.

With the King being supported between Treville and a shaky Cardinal, and Aramis with the Queen in his arms, the rest of the Musketeers formed a barrier around them with their bodies. As quickly as possible they scurried down the pathways as one unit to the nearest door to the Palace. Once they were safely inside, Treville let the Red Guards take over the escort duty from his Musketeers and he ordered all but Aramis, who was carrying the Queen, back out to escort the rest of the nobles inside. Treville stayed with the King while the Captain of the Red Guard went outside to the pavilion with the Musketeers and some of his troops.

Outside the combined troops set about putting out the small fires that had been started by the explosions, helping the wounded, and sorting out the deceased. In total, six of the twelve drums had exploded killing all of the drummers and wounding a large number of the other musicians. The nobility, who had been across the fire pit had suffered varying degrees of burns from the explosions, and some had been rendered unconscious. Luckily, the drums, when they exploded, did not burst into pieces of shrapnel because of the malleable nature of copper. If they had broken apart the damage would have been significantly greater.

The four shooters on the roof disappeared from sight as Athos, d'Artagnan and Porthos ran around the building trying to spot where they had gone. On far the side of the palace, near where Marsac had hung his rope, dangled two lines. Two of the shooters already had used the ropes and were sprinting away and two men were still on the ropes.

"We gotta do something about this in the future," Porthos declared when he saw the ropes.

Since they had not had time to reload, none of the three musketeers had a working pistol. The two men on the ropes spotted the Musketeers and reversed their direction and started to climb back up towards the roof.

"Oh no you don't," d'Artagnan yelled as he grabbed the nearest rope and began to shimmy up it.

The shooter on the first rope had gone back up to the roof and was moving over to the second rope with a knife in his hand.

"Athos!" Porthos screamed as the shooter looked like he was preparing to cut the rope d'Artagnan was on.

D'Artagnan was only halfway up the line when the man on the roof reached over to drag his partner in crime up the last few feet.

"He's gonna cut the rope!"

Athos whipped out his main gauche and heaved it with all his might up at the man on the roof, knowing at this distance, and with the odd angle, his chance of success was slim. Fortuitously it did hit the man, in the neck, but it wasn't a fatal blow. However, with the victim already hanging precariously over the brink to help his partner, and given the unexpectedness of the knife, he toppled over the edge, taking his partner with him. And to Athos' and Porthos' horror, the two falling men knocked d'Artagnan off the rope. All three men plunged to the ground and hit with a sickening thud.

Athos ran to the young man's side where he had fallen in the snow, stripped off his glove and felt for a pulse, which he found. He looked up at Porthos, whose anxious brown eyes were staring at him. "Alive."

Athos looked down at the still form, torn. He wanted to stay and take care of his brother, but he also knew it was his duty to go after the escaping assassins. Plus, Porthos was stronger than he and could carry the injured d'Artagnan inside to safety.

With his heart being ripped in two, Athos rose and looked to Porthos. "Take care of him. I have to go after the assassins."

Porthos gave a quick nod, knowing how much it was tearing Athos apart to leave, not knowing how seriously d'Artagnan was hurt. He watched as Athos sprinted after the two assassins who had left a trail of footprints in the snow. A quick check of the other two men, who had fallen from a much greater height, told the streetfighter what he expected. Dead.

Two more Musketeers came around the corner and Porthos sent Henri after Athos and George to find Aramis. Porthos didn't want to move d'Artagnan until Aramis or a medic checked him out for fear of doing more damage. Though he believed in God, Porthos didn't often pray; that was Aramis' job. However, as he knelt there in the snow, he began to pray fervently for d'Artagnan to not be seriously injured, for Athos to be safe as he hunted down the assassins and for Aramis to come quickly to assess their brother. Porthos freely admitted he was scared.

Aramis carried the Queen to her bedchamber where he tenderly laid her down. Immediately, he was shoved aside by one of the palace physicians, the King, and the Queen's handmaidens. Suddenly he went from being her savior to being relegated to the back of the room and he didn't like it. As he started to make his way back to the injured Queen's side, he felt a hand clamp down on his elbow, halting his progress.

"Your work is done here, Aramis," Captain Treville spoke quietly in his ear. "Go back outside. Help with the wounded there."

Aramis turned his brown eyes on his leader in disbelief. "But the Queen is injured…"

"And being attended by her physicians," Treville interjected. "Go outside and help with the wounded. Borrow a wagon if necessary to transport any of our injured men back to the garrison. The physicians here have their hands full."

Aramis took one last look at the love of his life, then nodded, turned and left the royal chambers.

Athos pounded over the snow-covered ground, left hand stabilizing his sword, as he followed the tracks of the assassins. The two men had about a three-minute head start so Athos was pushing his body to move as fast as it could to narrow that gap. The footsteps led into a small grove of trees on the far side of the garden, where Athos saw two horses, tied to trees. A quick scan of the ground showed there had been other horses and a neat trail of hoof prints indicating the direction they went.

The Musketeer ripped the reins of one of the remaining beasts free from the tree and he quickly mounted. He swiftly debated his option. He could follow the trail of hoof marks, though he'd continue to be behind them. Or he could gamble that their intentions were to flee the city, in which case they would be headed for the nearest gate. As a Musketeer, he was very familiar with the ways to the gates and he knew of a path that would get him there quicker and maybe ahead of his quarry. However, if they weren't headed in that direction he would lose them. His dilemma was solved when Henri came running up the path.

"Henri. Take that horse. Follow the trail. I think they are heading for the gate. I'm going to take a shortcut. Try to head them off." Having issued his commands, Athos spun the horse around and took off at a gallop.

As Aramis was heading back towards the pavilions, George came running out hailing him. "Aramis. D'Artagnan has been hurt. Porthos needs you!"

Instinctively clutching his crucifix, he demanded, "Show me!"

George took off at a run with Aramis hot on his heels. As they came around the building to where Porthos knelt in the snow, they saw him stroking the unmoving d'Artagnan's hair. The streetfighter looked up with relief when he heard the footsteps and saw Aramis.

"What happened?" Aramis inquired as he dropped on his knees next to the prone body.

"He fell. From the rope. Knocked off by the assassins."

"How far?" Aramis questioned as he loosened the Gascon's clothing to get a better look at him.

"Two stories. It happened fast. Athos threw his knife at the assailant on the roof who was about to cut the rope. Damn if Athos didn't hit him, but when the guy fell, he knocked his partner and d'Artagnan off the rope too."

A small portion of Aramis' brain filed that information away, because Athos was going to blame himself for d'Artagnan's fall. Methodically, the medic was running his hands over d'Artagnan, trying to determine if there were any broken bones. "Where is Athos?" he questioned without raising his eyes from the task at hand.

The marksman could hear the frustration in Porthos' tone without even looking at the man's face. "Took off. After two of the assassins."

"Alone?" Aramis tried to keep his voice non-judgmental, knowing his friend was struggling with the fact he let Athos chase after two armed men without backup.

"Sent Henri after him."

Aramis rose to his feet, his cursory examination done. He walked over and patted his friend on the arm. "You did right by staying with d'Artagnan. I don't think any limbs are broken. But I'm concerned about internal injuries and his back. We need to find a flat board to put him on to transport him back to the garrison."

"Garrison?"

Aramis nodded his head. "Yes. We can care for him better there. The doctors here are overwhelmed between the King and Queen and the other injured nobles."

Porthos said, "Stay here with him. I'll go find a board and a wagon."

As it turned out, three other Musketeers required medical attention, all courtesy of the exploding kettle drums. George rounded up a wagon while Porthos took Phillippe and a board back to where d'Artagnan lay. Using rope, they secured him to the flat piece of wood, then carried him over to wait for the wagon.

Treville came outside to see how his men were and received an update from Aramis, who had by now visited each of the injured Musketeers. The Captain lingered for a minute next to d'Artagnan, a gloved hand brushing the lad's brown hair aside.

"The King and Queen and baby are fine. Shook up as you can imagine, but resting comfortably. Does anyone know what happened here yet?" Treville asked letting his eyes wander over the destroyed drums and pavilions.

Porthos, who'd been poking about the drums while Aramis had examined the injured Musketeers and got them ready for transport spoke up. "There was gunpowder in the drums. The shots fired from the roof provided the spark to set off the heated gunpowder."

The conductor, who had been spared any major injuries, unlike the members of his orchestra, was offering comfort to those who were waiting to be ferried into the palace for treatment. He overheard Porthos' comment and came hurrying over. "Gunpowder in my drums! Preposterous."

Porthos, Aramis and the Captain moved over by one of the exploded drums and looked at the mangled metal. The Captain ran a finger over the copper and picked up black powder residue. Porthos took his main gauche and slashed the skin on the top of one of the few drums that hadn't exploded. Inside the copper vessel was a large portion of gunpowder. The maestro nearly fainted when saw what was inside.

"Who would do something like this?" he cried out in horror.

"You and all of your men will be questioned," Treville told him as he motioned some of the other Musketeers to come over. "See to it the injured are cared for and that the rest are placed in a secure location for questioning."

"But Captain. I assure you my musicians had nothing to do with this," the man pleaded. "Who could do something like this to their own? Dead. All my drummers. And half my musicians hurt."

The Captain didn't offer any platitudes, but simply said, "We will get to the bottom of this."

By now, the wagon had arrived and the injured Musketeers were carefully loaded in the back.

"I need to stay here. Aramis, see to the injured upon return to the garrison. Porthos, send men back to help clean up and guard all the musicians until they can be questioned. Oversee the…" Treville paused a moment as a thought hit him. Had he been that distracted? "Where is Athos?"

"Chasing after two of the assassins," Porthos replied. "I stayed with d'Artagnan and he followed their tracks in the snow. I sent Henri after Athos as soon as he showed up."

The Captain could hear the recrimination in the streetfighter's voice as he explained. "You did absolutely right, Porthos, staying with d'Artagnan. Athos can take care of himself and I'm sure Henri will catch up to him. Now get going." Treville was worried about Athos, but he had to focus on the priorities, the King and Queen.

Porthos and Aramis went to the stables and got their mounts, along with Athos' and d'Artagnan's and followed the wagon back to the garrison. Once they arrived, the injured were placed in the infirmary and the local doctor that oversaw the health of the Musketeers was summoned. Serge, upon seeing the exhausted men, made a hearty meal for the able-bodied and a large batch of broth for the injured.

D'Artagnan still had shown no signs of waking and when the doctor stripped him in the warmth of the infirmary for examination, he found some concerning bruising. His advice was keep him warm, and wait.

Athos rode his mount hard to the gate on the east side of Paris. After passing through it, he rode out into the surrounding fields, turning his mount in circles as he scanned the landscape. There was no sign of the two men anywhere in the nearby area and there was no way they could have made it to the woods in the distance. He must have gotten to the gate before them. As he turned his horse back towards the gate, he heard rapidly approaching hoof beats. Pulling out his musket, he waited.

As the two assassins burst through the gate, they saw Athos aiming a gun at them. Yanking their horses' heads around to move away from the lone Musketeer, they drew their guns. At that moment, Henri, who had made good time, came bursting out the gate. Two shots rang out and a second later, two more. The assassins managed to discharge their firearms first. Given their profession, their aim was good and they hit both of their targets. Athos and Henri also fired, a few seconds later, delayed by their horses, which were not battle-trained and had shied when they heard the first set of shots.

Athos felt the hot metal tearing through his side as he watched his shot rip into the thigh of one of the riders. Henri felt a burning sensation in the middle of his chest and seconds later tumbled to the ground. His shot at the assassins went wide.

"Henri!" Athos yelled as he urged his unruly horse towards the fallen man. How much he missed Roger at times like these.

The assassins turned and started galloping for the woods; the bullet Athos had put in the leg of one not slowing them down at all.

Athos drew up next to Henri and was making to dismount when Henri said, "Don't, Athos. Go get those bastards." With that, Henri's eyes went blank and his face slack.

"Damn," Athos muttered as he gazed upon the body of his dead brother-in-arms. More determined than ever, he spun his mount and took off after the fleeing men. He could feel the gunshot wound in his side bleeding down his leg, but based on where it hurt, he thought it might have simply plowed through the flesh above his hip. A clean shot and one that hopefully wouldn't prevent him from catching these murderers.

Their horse race could only go on for so long before the animals wore out. At some point this was going to become a showdown and when it did Athos knew he was at a serious disadvantage. Injured, with only one pistol, still unloaded, no main gauche and two opponents. He was racking his brain for an advantage of any sort.

Twenty minutes later, the horses were just about done in, the gallop slowed back to a ragged canter on the verge of being a trot. Athos could catch glimpses of the assassins several hundred yards ahead of him and would have loved to try to overtake them, but his horse had nothing left to give. The trail forked ahead, and he suddenly knew he might now have an advantage. The bridge a mile up this path had washed out recently making the ravine it went over impassable. It had only happened a week ago; one of the Musketeers had reported it but he doubted the general populace knew and it was highly unlikely these two would. They would be forced to turn around and come back to the fork, and then take the other road. There was a nice place for an ambush, a bank high enough to offer an advantage, on the road with the missing bridge.

Slowly, Athos reined in his horse, making it look like the exhausted animal simply couldn't go any further. When he could no longer glimpse the assassins ahead of him, Athos detoured off into the woods and started up the slope. The horse gave it a try, but was finding the ground too steep, so Athos dismounted and led the tired animal out of sight before tying him to a tree.

His own body was no happier than the horse's, his side protesting every step, but at least he was still alive, unlike poor Henri and... an image of d'Artagnan lying deathly still in the snow flashed through his mind. Was he still alive? A wave of despair tugged at him, trying to drag him out into a sea of sorrow. Before it could tow his thoughts too far astray, he metaphorically dug his feet in the sand and stopped. How many times had he lectured d'Artagnan, head over heart. He needed to heed his own advice. He pushed the distracting thoughts aside.

Quickly, he moved up the slope, then towards the road, though it wasn't an easy trek given the angle of the ground. The snow and unseen patches of ice brought him down more than once. Finding a good vantage point overlooking the road, he moved back from the edge and reloaded his pistol. One shot. Two men, and no time to reload.

Once the gun was loaded, he drew his sword then moved back to the edge and lowered himself to the ground on his belly. His side screamed at him for the foolish position he was in but he had no choice; he couldn't risk being seen. His body was sweating and shivering as he lay in the snow, watching and listening for any signs of his foe. The plan running through his mind wasn't elegant or pretty but he had to make it work, for the King, for the Queen, for Henri . . . and for his brother; the swordsman refused to let these assassins get away.

In the distance, the sounds of two, slowly plodding horses could be heard coming down the path. Their riders had their guns drawn and ready because they expected at any moment to come face to face with the Musketeer who'd been chasing them. However, they weren't thinking of an ambush from above.

Athos pushed up on his elbows, sighted down his barrel, held his breath and pulled the trigger. His shot rang true as the assassin on the left toppled from his horse and plunged to the ground. The remaining man brought his gun to bear on Athos, clipping him on the left bicep. But it didn't stop Athos from throwing his rapier down the small embankment before launching himself from the top at the man on the horse, catching him by surprise and knocking both of them to the ground.

The horses, as tired as they were, spooked and ran off as the two men wrestled on the ground. Athos scrambled away the first chance he got to grab his rapier. Once he had his familiar blade in his hand, he knew his enemy was finished. It wasn't a long sword fight as the assassin apparently was more skilled with a pistol than a blade. In a matter of minutes the battle was over and the assassin lay on the ground with Athos' sword pressing into his chest.

"Who hired you?" Athos menacingly growled as he pressed the tip harder against the man's chest.

In a surprise move, the assassin bolted up right, impaling himself on Athos' sword and essentially causing his own death. Athos swore again as the light in the man's eyes went out. Shakily, Athos cleaned his sword and stood, panting in the fading afternoon light. He was feeling light-headed and feverish, despite the bitter cold.

A quick search of the bodies reveled a letter, with a promise of payment from Gaston, Louis' brother. Tucking it into his doublet pocket, Athos dragged the bodies to the side of the road for retrieval later. After reloading his own pistol, he set about hiking back to where he left his horse. It was an unpleasant surprise to arrive there and find the animal, which had barely been able to keep its head up, missing.

Making his way back to the road, he looked for signs of the other two horses, but they were gone too. With a sigh, he started walking back towards Paris in the deepening twilight and the light snow that had started up again. It was very quiet in the woods with the coming of nightfall and the snow and Athos at times wondered if he were walking in his dreams. It was going to take him hours to get back to Paris, but the thought of d'Artagnan lying there motionless drove him to keep placing one foot after the other.

Back in the garrison, Porthos had arranged for Musketeers to go to the Palace to oversee the musician-prisoners until which time as their innocence could be proven. Aramis was in the infirmary doing follow up care after the doctor's departure. The Gascon's injuries were the gravest of the lot, and Aramis had arranged for him to be in a quiet corner, near the hearth to ward off the chill. The ex-farmer had still shown no signs of waking or moving. When all his duties were done for the time being, Aramis pulled up a chair next to the Gascon's bed to pray and wait.

Porthos and Serge came in bearing food for the wounded. Aramis found himself being dragged off by Porthos to a table to eat, even though he didn't feel the least like it.

"One brother, lying there unconscious, and I have no idea how bad off he is, and the other brother is out there, somewhere, chasing two assassins," Aramis moaned as he pushed his spoon through the stew but didn't lift it to his lips. "At least you sent Henri with him."

Porthos' spoon, which was on its way to his mouth, faltered, before he shoved it between his lips.

Aramis' eyes narrowed as he studied his brother, who was masticating the hell out of the piece of meat in his mouth. Serge didn't always get the best cuts of meat, but Porthos looked like he was trying to chew and swallow an old boot. "What aren't you telling me," the marksman demanded, causing his brother to scowl and chew even harder.

"Spit it out, and by that I mean what you are hiding, not that piece of meat you are pulverizing."

Porthos placed his spoon on the table and ran hand over the side of his face. "They found Henri. Outside the east gate. Dead."

Aramis paled at the implication. "And Athos."

"No sign of him." In frustration, the streetfighter slammed his fist into the table. "And until Treville comes back we can't go searching."

"Why?" Aramis demanded as he rose from the chair. "Let's go. Now."

Porthos, as much as he wanted to go, knew they couldn't, not yet. "Aramis. Sit," he pleaded. "Don't make this any harder than it already is. You have to stay here and oversee the wounded and d'Artagnan. Athos would never forgive you if you left the boy alone to go look for him."

Aramis knew what the big musketeer said was true.

"And besides Serge and the stable lads, you and I are the only ones here. You need to stay with the wounded and I need to guard the gate. Like it or not, Athos is on his own."

"From twelve drummers to this," Aramis waved a tired hand around the infirmary. "How does that happen?"

Athos wondered if he was coming to the edge of the forest soon. A few hundred feet later he had his answer as the fields outside of Paris came into view. The weary and slightly disorientated Musketeer stopped for a moment and considered how tranquil everything appeared under the mantle of fresh snow. In fact, it was so peaceful, he wanted simply to lie down and go to sleep. Then the image of d'Artagnan brushed his mind, merging with that of Thomas, lying dead on the floor of the parlor, and it shocked him to his senses. He couldn't stop now, not until he knew if he had killed another one of his brothers.

Forcing his feet to move again, he trudged into the falling snow covering the fields. His body couldn't decide if it was hot or cold and alternated between periods of sweating and shivering. First, he felt hot, as if his very clothes were on fire. Sweat coated his skin and ran down his back. Then a fierce gust of wind blew across the open plain. He started shivering as the icy breeze found its way inside the crevices of his coat making his sweat feel like it was freezing to his skin. However, like a tired mule plowing a field by rote, the Musketeer kept his head bowed and plodded onward.

An indeterminate amount of time later, he raised his head and saw he was at the east gate of Paris. As he passed through the opening, he couldn't help but think of Henri, who had died here. The guards, who recognized his pauldron, let him pass without question. It spoke to how numb his brain was that he didn't think to ask for their help or to borrow a horse, but just kept trudging through the streets of Paris.

As he neared home, irrational fear gripped his mind and he began to attempt to run through the streets to the garrison. It was a rough gait at best, but was somewhat faster than a walk. As the first rays of dawn struck the garrison's vaulted gate, the swordsman stumbled past the guards heading for the infirmary. He flung open the door and stood, his fever bright, delusional eyes searching the room. Finally, he saw his three brothers in the far corner, one in the bed and two in chairs nearby. It was like his body forgot what it was supposed to do as he stood there numbly.

The sound of the door being flung open woke Aramis and Porthos and they quickly fixed their eyes on the door even as they reached for their weapons. Some more Musketeers had returned freeing Porthos to sit with this brothers.

"Athos!" they echoed in unison when their eyes lit on the ragged man standing in the doorway. Both Musketeers quickly stood and hurried to his side.

"Athos?" Aramis repeated as he placed a careful hand on his ill brother's arm. The swordsman suddenly snapped, grabbed Aramis' shirt collar with his right hand and pulled the man within inches of his face.

"Is he dead?"

Athos kept twisting the shirt tighter around Aramis' neck in his delusional state, not recognizing he was choking the man. Porthos grabbed Athos by his biceps and pried him off the marksman. Athos let out a strangled cry as Porthos' strong hands pressed on the bullet wound in his left arm. The swordsman started to crumble and when the streetfighter, trying to help, moved his grip from one of Athos' arms to encircle his waist hitting his other wound, Athos swung a fist at his friend trying to escape the agony. The blow glanced off the side of Porthos face, stunning him with its unexpectedness, and he released the swordsman who crumbled to his knees on the floor.

Aramis, when he was released, stumbled back against a chair, which he grabbed for support to steady himself. Porthos backed off a few steps, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he watched Athos fall on his knees. With his head bowed, a foot from the floor he croaked, "d'Artagnan?" Raising his head slowly, his pleading, grief-filled eyes scanned the room once more.

Aramis gently reached out to touch Athos' cheek to get him to focus. "Athos. He's alive."

The green eyes shifted to peer at him, seeking the validity of the words.

"Let me show you," the marksman said, though he made no sudden moves or offered to help the man to his feet. Athos' mind was not totally rational and the medic treated him like a spooked colt.

Using a nearby chair Athos hauled his frozen body to his feet, then followed Aramis as he crossed the infirmary to the back corner where the Gascon lay. Standing very still next to the bed, the weary swordsman ran his eyes up and down the blanketed figure. "How bad?"

Porthos joined them and the three Musketeers stared at the inert form, watching the young man's chest rhythmically rise and fall. "He hasn't awoken since he was brought here. But Athos, these things can take time. You know that."

Aramis could see Athos shivering, and he wanted to get the Musketeer to shed his wet garments. "Why don't you come over by the fire and warm up for a few minutes while Porthos fetches some dry clothes from your room."

"No." The refusal was delivered in a flat tone, though it clearly indicated there was no room for discussion.

Aramis glanced over at Porthos. They knew what Athos was like when he got in this mood and little could persuade him from his path. They either had to play his way, go away, or do something drastic.

The marksman moved the chair he'd been sitting in closer to the head of the bed. "Athos, perhaps you'd like to sit here. With d'Artagnan for a while."

Nodding mutely, the swordsman dropped into the chair, then reached forward and carded his hand through his unconscious brother's hair. "He's warm."

"Not overly so. He has no fever. It is you who is cold, my friend, therefore he seems hot. Why don't you take off your weapons belt so you can sit more comfortably in that chair?" Aramis lightly suggested and he was rewarded when the swordsman handed all his weaponry over to Porthos. "There, now isn't that better?"

Seeming not to hear him, Athos moved his chair closer and gently uncovered d'Artanan's hand and cupped it in his own trembling one. "He's cold," Athos declared as he looked plaintively up at the medic. "Can't you do something for him?"

Knowing he wasn't getting through to the only partially cognizant Comte, Aramis played the game by Athos' rules. "How about we do this. I'll take these blankets from the cot here and wrap one around you and one around him, keep you both warm. Wouldn't want your cold hands making him cold now would we."

Athos remained pliable as Aramis stripped the nearby cot of its blankets and then bundled them around the two musketeers, though mostly around Athos as d'Artagnan was fine. When he was done, he motioned for Porthos to follow him to the other side of the infirmary, as Athos sat there quietly, staring at his brother.

"What's the matter with him?" Porthos asked once they were out of earshot. "Shouldn't we call a doctor?"

"In this state, Athos won't let anyone examine him, not even me. He has a fever that much I can tell. And his grasp on reality is weak. His mind and body are protecting themselves as best they know how. So we give him some time, and wait for him to fall asleep or pass out." The look Porthos gave Aramis was dubious, but he went along with the premise.

The morning passed quietly, Athos didn't fall asleep, pass out, or move from his post at d'Artagnan's side. When his fever rose, he shucked the blankets off that Aramis had wrapped around him. The medic tried to get him to drink some broth, but the swordsman balked.

As Treville had yet to return from the Palace, Porthos left the infirmary to see about the running of the garrison. Musketeers kept returning to sleep and fresh ones taking their place at the Palace leading the streetfighter to believe Treville was still at the Palace and worried about the safety of the Royal family.

By mid-morning, all the Musketeers in the infirmary, other than d'Artagnan, were given the option to relocate back to their own quarters to finish their recuperations, and every one gladly moved. Athos in a state of semi-consciousness, sat in the chair next to the bed, but attempts to move him to a bed seemed to rouse him enough to fight the idea, so in the chair he remained.

That afternoon, when the doctor came to examine d'Artagnan, things got very bad. Aramis and Porthos had to physically drag the delusional Athos away from the bed so the doctor could examine the patient. Even in his ever-weakening state, Athos fought them restraining him.

When the physician was done, he stood up and walked over to where Aramis and Porthos were detaining Athos. The physician eyed the disheveled Athos rather as if he were a rapid dog, physically foaming at the mouth. "He remains unconscious. I know not for how much longer. That remains in God's hand. I have done all I can."

The marksman could feel the anger building in Athos and he tightened his hold on the man's arm, glad they had taken all his weapons away earlier. The doctor took a step away from the pair as if he sensed the danger he was in. "I'll check round tomorrow. Keep doing what you are doing."

"Doing!" the delusional Athos screamed. "Doing! We are doing nothing! That brave Musketeer lies there dying and we are doing nothing!"

Athos broke free of Aramis' hold and took a step towards the doctor who was retreating towards the door. The doctor backed right into Treville, who had just gotten back to the garrison, heard the yelling and stepped into the doorway of the infirmary to investigate. Unware that the Captain was behind him, the doctor backed into him and let out a startled squeal.

"What is going on here?" the Captain's voice boomed across the space as he saw a wild looking Athos who appeared to be accosting the physician.

"Captain," Athos said as he stood panting in front of the man as if he'd just run a marathon. "That so-called doctor is doing nothing for d'Artagnan. They are letting him simply die."

The Captain stared over at Aramis looking for a coherent explanation, but before he could offer one, Athos began ranting again.

"God! They are waiting for God to do something. God! God will kill him like Thomas. Then he'll take all of you and you and you," he pointed fingers at his brothers, "and leave me to suffer." The overwrought musketeer rounded on the Captain again. "We need to do something. Now!"

Aramis stepped forward and soothingly said, "You are right, Athos. We must do something. The Captain, Porthos, the doctor and I will discuss what to do while you go sit in the chair by d'Artagnan." When it appeared, Athos was going to object, he added, "in case he wakes up. Don't want him to be alone or afraid."

Athos mind, which had long ago snapped from the exhaustion, cold and blood loss was incapable of a rationale thought and he struggled, trying to decide if this was some sort of new trick.

Aramis, knowing his brother was not in his right mind, offered a quick prayer to God to forgive him for the lie he was about to tell. "Athos, did you see that?" Aramis said with excitement as he glanced towards the bed where d'Artagnan lay. "There it is again. He moved his arm ever so slightly. Go. Sit by him. Hold his hand."

Aramis wanted to weep for the lie he was telling his brother, for there had been no twitch. The hope that flashed through those weary green eyes nearly broke his heart in two. The marksman watched as Athos stumbled his way back to d'Artagnan's bedside, collapsed in the chair, then grabbed the Gascon's hand and held it between his own two.

By the time Aramis moved over by the fireplace, Treville had been brought up to speed on the health of d'Artagnan. "And what's wrong with Athos?" he demanded, distressed to see his Lieutenant so unhinged.

All eyes turned to Aramis who rubbed a hand over his face. "He's delusional. From exhaustion. From the cold. He has a fever but he won't let me examine him. I have no idea if he's hurt further."

"What do you suggest?" the Captain asked the group.

"Knock him out. Give his body and mind a chance to rest. I have a tincture that will work and cause no lasting harm," the doctor declared. "I made it up fresh this morning for another patient and I have some left in my bag still."

The three Musketeers exchanged glances, not liking the idea but seeing no alternative, so when the doctor went to his bag and removed the vial, Aramis accepted it.

After he had gone, Treville looked over at Athos, sitting next to the bed, clutching d'Artagnan's hand. "You said he feels responsible. Why?"

"It was his knife throw that killed the assassin that fell and knocked d'Artagnan off the rope. An accident, but you know Athos," Porthos said sadly.

"Did he say, when he returned, what happened to the other two assassins he was chasing?"

"No Captain. He wasn't real rational when he burst in here. Just looking for d'Artagnan and nothing else seemed to be getting through to him," Porthos declared as he looked over to Aramis for conformation.

Treville stared at Athos. "There was no truth in the fact you saw d'Artagnan move?"

Clearly, the marksman was uncomfortable with the lie he had told. "None. But I needed something…"

Laying a sympathetic hand on Aramis' shoulder, the Captain kindly said, "You did what you had to do."

"And now," Aramis continued bitterly, "I'm going to render him unconscious."

"For his own good, Aramis," Porthos chimed in. "I don't like it either, but he can't go on like this. He's hurting himself. If something were to happen to Athos while d'Artagnan is recovering, none of us would survive that."

The Captain squared his shoulders and ordered Aramis to drug Athos, thinking it might be better coming as a command from him, maybe help ease Aramis' guilt. "But first I want to see if I can get him to tell me the fate of the assassins. After questioning the surviving musicians, I don't think they were involved. I think someone tampered with the drums after they were set up and before I sent you to guard them. The conductor said they sounded a little odd."

Moving between the other empty beds, the Captain made his way to the only occupied one where d'Artagnan lay with Athos sitting by his side clutching his hand. The conscious Musketeer didn't even glance up at his approach.

"Athos," Captain Treville said in his best commander's voice. "What happened to the two assassins you were chasing?"

Though he didn't raise his eyes or his head to glance at his Captain, he did reply. "Dead. I killed them on road where the bridge is out. I walked back to the garrison from there. Someone should go collect the bodies."

"Did they tell you who was behind this operation?"

"They're dead," Athos repeated remotely.

The Captain reached over and firmly grasped Athos' chin and made the Musketeer turn his head and look at him. Still holding his chin, he repeated, "Did you find out who they were working for?" Treville couldn't begin to fathom the emotions floating through the green eyes staring at him. He only knew this man was not the stoic Athos he knew.

Athos stared at the Captain so long, he was about to give up on getting a reply, when finally, the man said, "Letter. My pocket."

Treville found the letter, scanned it and frowned. Moving back over to where Aramis and Porthos still stood by the fireplace, Treville ran a tired hand through his hair. "The King's brother, Gaston, is behind this it seems. The King won't be pleased."

"He's alive. That should please him. I hope that puts an end to these stupid quests," Porthos said with distain.

"Athos?" Aramis tentatively asked to see if his Captain had changed his mind.

"For the sake of that man's sanity, you have to knock him out and let him rest. That," he glanced over at the hunched figure, "is not Athos."

It was surprising easy to pour the mixture into a glass of wine that Athos eagerly accepted. It didn't take long for the drug to work as swordsman's limbs went slack and he slumped onto the bed. Quickly, they lifted him of off d'Artagnan and placed him on a nearby cot where Aramis quickly stripped him and found the gunshot wounds on the side and the arm, as well as assorted bruises.

Both wounds appeared to have bled heavily at some point and showed signs of infection. While he lay unconscious, they cleaned him up, threated his wounds and dressed him in dry, warm clothes. Then they left him to sleep, that being the best medicine for him. Aramis, after he was done, lay down for a short nap, but before he did, he prayed to his God, with all his heart to prove Athos wrong in his assumptions and heal d'Artagnan.

When Athos woke from his enforced rest, his fever was lower and he still was exhausted and in pain. As much as he scowled at everyone for knocking him out, when he heard the stories of his behavior, the swordsman realized it had been for the best.

Once he got his bearings, he was right back at d'Artagnan's side. He was greeted with the good news that the young man had awoken, and appeared to be fine, but tired. He had full movement of his arms and legs and other than bruises, suffered no lasting damage from the fall.

The King, after the twelve-drummer debacle, ended his true love gifts and instead simply showered the Queen with his undying devotion by smothering her with his presence, day and night. The Queen was so fed-up tripping over him that she called Treville in private and begged him to take the King on outings, quests, anything to get him out from under foot. So in a concentrated effort between Captain Treville and his Musketeers, and the Cardinal, they found or manufactured tasks that simply had to have the King's attention to give her Majesty some respite.

The last night before d'Artagnan and Athos were to return to full duty status, the Inseparables met in Aramis' large room for dinner from the quartet's favorite tavern and wine from Athos' good stock. After a pleasant meal, they lounged with glasses of mulled wine and chatted idly.

"Birds, baubles, bombs. Exciting times," Aramis declared as he swirled his glass of wine to stir the fragrant spices.

Porthos shook his head. "I could do with a bit less excitement."

"Just think of all the knowledge you gained on these quests. Like knights of old." Aramis leaned his head back and stretched his legs. "We learned that Athos has a secret affection for poodles…"

Athos rolled his eyes and sipped his spiced wine.

"…and d'Artagnan and Porthos aren't good bird catchers and simply can't be trusted on their own in Serge's kitchen."

"It was his fault not mine," Porthos defended his honor.

"D'Artagnan did redeem himself by demonstrating he is a true farmer and finding the only five toed French hens in Paris…"

The Gascon tilted his head in acknowledgment.

"…while Athos, the best swordsman in all of France disgracefully cut his own finger peeling carrots."

"Knife wasn't sharp. A good knife should always be kept well honed," Athos muttered under this breath.

"Yeah, and you would have cut your whole finger off," Porthos couldn't resist teasing.

"And we learned birds could talk on our quests…"

"And get us hung," the Gascon interjected.

"…and that d'Artagnan has an affinity for women's jewelry…"

Two smirks and a scowl were offered up to that comment.

"Perhaps the King needed to come on these quests to learn the difference between a goose and a swan." Aramis paused a moment thinking of the tenth quest, then added, "Scratch that. No Kings on quests."

"Then my personal favorite revelations, d'Artagnan looks marvelous in a dress, Porthos has a second career as a dancer, and after being around those ten-toady leaping Lords it's amazing Athos isn't more screwed up than he is. Kudos to you Athos for escaping your caste structure only partially deranged."

Athos eyes narrowed as he glanced over at Aramis, pretty sure he'd just been complimented and insulted simultaneously.

"And last, but not least, we learned Athos doesn't like bagpipes, and if we ever run short of bombs on the battlefield, we can commandeer kettle drums. All in all these quests have been very enlightening."

"I could do without any more enlightenment," Porthos stated as he raised his glass high to make a toast. "May we remain unenlightened Musketeers for the rest of our lives."


	13. Chapter 13

TLQ 12B

The four Musketeers strolled through the gardens to where the two small pavilions had been erected next to each other. Under one expanse of material stood twelve metal objects set in a wide semi-circle. A few of the last rays of sunshine of the day crept under the open-sided tent, striking the objects and making their copper sides gleam.

"Are those drums?" d'Artagnan questioned as he walked over to examine them.

As usual when it came to these types of questions, all eyes turned to Athos for an answer as he was the most educated of them. The swordsman strolled over and ran a gloved hand over the copper sides before bouncing two fingers off the top of the tightly stretched skins making it emit a tone. Using his other hand, he bounced two fingers off the next one over and it emitted a different tone.

"Kettle drums. Sometimes used in pairs, mounted on horses." Running a finger over the edge of the top onto the side lip, he found the fastener he suspected was there since these drums were stationed on the ground. "These particular drum skins can be tightened or loosened to change the pitch allowing for variety in sound. Some nobility used to travel with a pair of these drums and a trumpeter to demonstrate their… importance."

"So twelve stuck up nobles have left their drums in the King's garden?" Porthos asked facetiously, gazing at the kettles.

While d'Artagnan moved along in front of the twelve drums, tapping each to make it sound its tone, Athos moved to stand next to Porthos and Aramis. Ignoring Porthos' comment, he continued his lecture, "Drums have been used on the battlefields to send signals..."

"Better than bagpipes," Porthos inserted with a smirk at his friends.

"… and some early civilizations set them up as relay messaging and warning systems since the sound can travel a great distance. Now that the drums have the ability to vary pitches, they are being used in orchestras." Porthos gave him and odd look and Athos shrugged. "I read."

Porthos glanced around the snowy gardens then sighed. "So this is another one of the King's true love quests."

"Yes. The King has arranged another concert for the Queen and the heir-to-be." The marksman studied the drums for a few moments. "Do you suppose the child in the Queen's womb will be able to hear the drums?"

D'Artagnan, who had rejoined them, grimaced. "If the baby heard the bagpipe concert, the child may decide never to emerge."

Athos couldn't hide his smile at his protégée's witticism. As open minded as he tried to be, the bagpipes still tended to rub him wrong. Though to be fair, he'd only had the pleasure of hearing them with a hangover. Perhaps clear-headed they wouldn't seem quite so wailing.

Porthos stomped his feet in the snow while he rubbed his hands together to generate heat. "I can't believe the Captain has us out here on guard duty all night protecting these things. Who'd want to steal a drum? They are not particularly small or easy to hide."

"In actuality, we are to patrol the whole of the Palace grounds," Athos corrected as he tucked his scarf tighter around his neck to help against the wind's chill.

"This feels like a punishment to me, not a quest," Porthos groused as he eyed the kettle drums with distaste. "All night, in the cold, watching drums. We've pissed the Captain off somehow."

"This is simply an assignment to patrol the entire Palace grounds," Athos reiterated to his friends before adding, "that may or may not be related to the Captain's displeasure with Aramis."

Me?" the marksman protested with indignation. "What did I…"

Athos tilted his head at his brother, quirked an eyebrow and gave him _that_ look.

A sheepish grin appeared on Aramis' face as he reached up and smoothed the ends of his moustache. "Oh. That. How was I to know she was the Cardinal's long lost niece."

Porthos reached over and smacked the marksman in the arm. "Do you ever learn? I should have figured this was your fault."

"And how do you know," Aramis offered as another explanation, "this is not your fault? I recall a certain gentleman who was talking to the Captain about being cheated in a card game the other night when you happened to be in the Wren."

Now it was Porthos turn to look uncomfortable. "Yeah, I'd forgotten about that. But he was so inept I can't believe he knew I was cheating." The streetfighter saw d'Artagnan and flipped the blame in his direction. "This assignment is lover boy's fault because he has been pestering Constance so much that the Queen, herself, complained to Treville."

"The Queen did not complain," d'Artagnan defended himself until all his brothers' eyes stared at him with skepticism, so he added an addendum. "She simply suggested that absence makes the heart grow fonder." D'Artagnan turned his gaze on Athos. "And I suppose you're innocent of all wrong doing?"

Athos folded his arms across his chest and coolly stared at his protégée. His whole attitude said 'do tell'. Silence settled over the garden with the youngest Musketeer wisely deciding to keep his mouth shut.

"D'Artagnan, Aramis together. Porthos with me. We'll check in every hour by the swan pond," Athos ordered his men. "Keep alert."

After four hours, Athos rotated the teams, pairing d'Artagnan with Porthos and Aramis with him. After the midnight bell, snow began to fall at a fairly steady rate. As Athos and Aramis swung by the drums on their rounds Aramis pondered, "Given the time of year, I wonder why the King arranged the concert to be outside."

"Maybe he learned his lessons with bagpipers and enclosed spaces," Athos suggested drily.

"Well at least someone made a nice fire pit," Aramis noted as they walked past the area. "Should help keep them warm."

The fire pit was located between the drummers and where the audience was to sit and it would be interesting to see if the smoke became an issue. Technically, there was about five feet between the two pavilions, but whether the fire and wind would cooperate remained to be seen.

"I wonder if they built it too close to the metal drums. Copper is a very good conductor of heat. Might make it uncomfortable for the drummers," Athos speculated as he thought about the placement of the pit, the size, and the amount of wood stacked within its borders.

"Copper conducting heart. Another fact you read in a book?" Aramis goaded lightly, knowing his friend was very well educated and seemed to retain much of what he read.

The sound of Athos snorting drifted through the night. "No, this knowledge was gained in a more intimate manner. We had copper pots in the kitchen. When I was small, I stumbled into a hot one. It was an enlightening and unforgettable experience. I believe the cook was making chicken soup in it," he added wryly.

"How many toes did the chicken have?" Aramis asked with a laugh. "I hear the best soup is made with five-toed chickens."

The four Inseparables met up by the swan pond for their last check in of the night.

"Wonder if the swans are happy?" Porthos asked as he watched the white blobs he assumed were the swans through the falling snowflakes.

Athos thought about the swans and the idea of freedom. "By now, their feathers have grown back so they could simply fly away if they wanted, but something keeps them here. Acceptance. Food. Companionship. Soulmates." For a moment, he realized he could be describing why the Inseparables were Musketeers.

"I guess it's alright if they want to stay and are not being held captive," Porthos declared as one who had once experienced slavery and appreciated what freedom was like afterwards.

"Let's move out. Our replacements should be here shortly after dawn," Athos declared as he indicated with a nod of his head that d'Artagnan should come with him this round.

The two walked in silence for a long while as the sky slowly lightened.

"I'm sorry I slept with your wife, Athos." the Gascon blurted out as they patrolled the grounds.

Why was it that dark, snowy nights seemed to bring out the need for confession in people Athos wondered? That whole debacle was ancient history in Athos' mind and best left buried. Why was the boy dragging it up?

"I mean if it was Constance, I'd be, well, furious."

"But you are sleeping with Constance, even though she is married to another."

D'Artagnan was taken aback for a moment, having never quite thought of it like that. "Well, it's different. Constance doesn't love her husband, nor does he love her. She's going to leave him."

"I see no difference then," Athos stated as they walked through the snowy night. "Anne and I were not together. You just happened along and got caught in one of her webs."

The Gascon peered over in the pre-dawn gloom at his mentor, but it was still too dark to see his face clearly, not, since it was Athos, that it was likely his face would give anything away. "But you still love her I think."

"I'm not discussing this with you," Athos warned in a low, steady voice that meant business. With that he stalked off into the darkness.

Few minutes later they came back to the Palace and found Porthos and Aramis waiting for them with their replacements. Their two friends didn't look very happy.

"Treville wants us back on guard duty for the concert. We're to get some food and a few hours sleep and return here before noon," Porthos informed his leader as he and d'Artagnan approached.

They collected their horses and headed back to the garrison, though Athos might as well not have been within a mile of them for he built an invisible, but obvious, wall about himself. He didn't look at his brothers, interact with them on any level and once back in the garrison, immediately disappeared to his room. The other three went to grab some food before heading to their own rooms for a quick nap.

At the appointed time, Athos showed up in the courtyard, still not really acknowledging their presence, and they rode back to the Palace in silence. Once their horses were stabled, they met up with Treville and the other Musketeers on duty. Treville noticed a tension in the Inseparables, but he didn't have time to ponder upon it. He handed out assignments to have eight of the Musketeers, including Porthos, Athos, d'Artagnan and Aramis patrolling the grounds around the concert site and another eight Musketeers standing guard around the pavilions holding the drums and the audience. Given the tension with the Inseparables, Treville decided to keep them further away from the King and Cardinal.

The eight Musketeers guarding the King and Queen's pavilion took up their positions, two on each side, except the side facing the drummers where the fire pit was located. Those two Musketeers spilt and stood on either side, but quite a way back from the fire. The Captain was at the King's left side when the Royal party and their guests emerged from the Palace and made their way over the shoveled pathways to the pavilion. About six inches of snow had fallen over night and the servants had been shoveling paths through the pristine whiteness.

The eight Musketeers patrolling the grounds had no paths shoveled for them, but eventually, they started to tramp down their own eight individual paths as they circled the grounds. Athos was perfectly content with this individual assignment as he pushed the conversation with d'Artagnan to the back of his mind. His brothers glanced at him whenever their orbits passed near, but he always found some other place, besides their faces, to look.

The twelve drummers took up their positions, backs to the Palace and facing the King and Queen. A small number of other musicians joined them with various wind instruments and stood to one side of the drummers. The conductor joined his orchestra, awkwardly debating where to stand as the roaring fire was immediately in front where he would have normally positioned himself. Finally, he settled for near the wind section of his band.

A hush fell over the crowd as the maestro raised his hands and the drummers held their sticks aloft in preparation. As his hand dropped one by one the drummers started up a drum roll until all twelve drummers were beating the pattern. From there they went on to a series of demonstrations of the drums' versatility. By the time this first part was done, the copper drums, thanks to the blazing fire, were heating up and causing the drummers to break out in a sweat. However, the musicians gamely pressed on and moved to playing melodies with the rest of the instruments present. The conductor gave his drummers a slightly odd look as he thought their drumming sounded a bit flatter than usual, but the King and his audience seemed pleased so he moved on.

Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan admitted Athos' knowledge earlier had been spot on, for while they couldn't hear the wind instruments as they patrolled the snowy grounds, they were able to distinguish the drums, especially the ones with the deepest tonal sound. They could almost feel the bass notes at times reverberating in their bones.

Suddenly, there was a noise that was not part of the planned music, three gun shots followed by the sound of an explosion. The eight Musketeers patrolling the grounds had begun to sprint towards the King's pavilion where the sound of the explosion originated. Knowing fairly well what the target was, they turned and tried to locate the shooters. Small puffs of smoke gave away the location, which was on a flat portion of the palace roof. How the shooters got up there in this snowy weather was a mystery. The eight Musketeers pulled out their pistols and fired at the men on the roof, but the distance was too great for mere handguns with none of the bullets finding their mark.

The commander in Athos took over as he yelled out instructions to the Musketeers. "Henri, Allan, George, Guillaume, Aramis go to Treville at the pavilion. Porthos, d'Artagnan, with me. Let's catch those bastards."

Before the words were out of his mouth, the sound of gun fire came from the roof again followed by the sound of two more explosions.

"Go!" Athos screamed as he took off running towards the Palace with d'Artagnan and Porthos on his heels.

"Dear God," Aramis prayed as he grabbed for his cross as he and the rest of the Musketeers ran for the pavilion where plumes of black smoke were rising into the frosty air. The area was in chaos with people on the ground and others milling about like sheep. Treville was organizing a protective shield of Musketeers around the downed monarchs on the ground. When he saw Aramis, he waved him over.

"The Queen? The King?" Aramis cried out as he saw the two prone bodies on the carpet that had been laid in the pavilion.

"Stunned I think. By the force of the blast. The damn drums blew up! See if you think we should move them."

Aramis knelt on the ground next to their majesties and gave them a quick examination, agreeing with his Captain's assessment. The medic Musketeer glanced over at the Cardinal who was being helped to his feet by another Musketeer. "Are you alright your Eminence?"

"Yes," he said as he regained his footing and smoothed out his robes. "The King?"

Aramis climbed to his feet and he and the Cardinal joined Treville. "The risk of leaving them out here, exposed, with the shooters on the loose, is greater than moving them I believe. I think you are right, they are only stunned," Aramis declared.

"I agree we need to move them immediately," Cardinal Richelieu declared as he looked to Treville to make it happen.

The King began to stir and the Cardinal quickly moved to his side to reassure him. "You are safe my King, as is the Queen, but we need to get you inside quickly. The Musketeer will carry you, Sire."

"I don't need to be carried. I can walk," Louis stated. As he rolled to his knees, he saw where his Queen lay unmoving. "Anne!" he cried.

"Unconscious, your Majesty. But not harmed," Treville said as he moved to the King's side and encouraged him to get on his feet. With a nod of his head, he gestured for Aramis to pick up the Queen.

With the King being supported between Treville and a shaky Cardinal, and Aramis with the Queen in his arms, the rest of the Musketeers formed a barrier around them with their bodies. As quickly as possible they scurried down the pathways as one unit to the nearest door to the Palace. Once they were safely inside, Treville let the Red Guards take over the escort duty from his Musketeers and he ordered all but Aramis, who was carrying the Queen, back out to escort the rest of the nobles inside. Treville stayed with the King while the Captain of the Red Guard went outside to the pavilion with the Musketeers and some of his troops.

Outside the combined troops set about putting out the small fires that had been started by the explosions, helping the wounded, and sorting out the deceased. In total, six of the twelve drums had exploded killing all of the drummers and wounding a large number of the other musicians. The nobility, who had been across the fire pit had suffered varying degrees of burns from the explosions, and some had been rendered unconscious. Luckily, the drums, when they exploded, did not burst into pieces of shrapnel because of the malleable nature of copper. If they had broken apart the damage would have been significantly greater.

The four shooters on the roof disappeared from sight as Athos, d'Artagnan and Porthos ran around the building trying to spot where they had gone. On far the side of the palace, near where Marsac had hung his rope, dangled two lines. Two of the shooters already had used the ropes and were sprinting away and two men were still on the ropes.

"We gotta do something about this in the future," Porthos declared when he saw the ropes.

Since they had not had time to reload, none of the three musketeers had a working pistol. The two men on the ropes spotted the Musketeers and reversed their direction and started to climb back up towards the roof.

"Oh no you don't," Porthos yelled as he grabbed the nearest rope and began to shimmy up it.

The shooter on the first rope had already made it back to the roof and was moving over to the second rope with a knife in his hand.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan screamed as the shooter looked like he was preparing to cut the rope Porthos was on.

Porthos was only halfway up the line when the man on the roof reached over and dragged his partner in crime up the last few feet.

"He's gonna cut the rope!"

Athos whipped out his main gauche and heaved it with all his might up at the man on the roof, knowing at this distance, and with the odd angle, his chance of success was slim. Fortuitously it did hit the man, in the neck, but it wasn't a fatal blow. However, with the victim already hanging precariously over the brink to help his partner, and given the unexpectedness of the knife, he toppled over the edge, taking his partner with him. And to Athos' and d'Artagnan's horror, the two falling men knocked Porthos off the rope. All three men plunged to the ground and hit with a sickening thud.

Athos ran to the streetfighter's side where he had fallen in the snow, stripped off his glove and felt for a pulse, which he found. He looked up at d'Artagnan, whose anxious brown eyes were staring at him. "Alive."

Athos looked down at the still form, torn. He wanted to stay and take care of his brother, but he also knew it was his duty to go after the escaping assassins.

With his heart being ripped in two, Athos rose and looked to d'Artagnan. "Take care of him. I have to go after the assassins."

D'Artagnan gave a quick nod, knowing how much it was tearing Athos apart to leave, not knowing how seriously Porthos was hurt. He watched as Athos sprinted after the two assassins who had left a trail of footprints in the snow. A quick check of the other two men, who had fallen from a much greater height, told the Gascon what he expected. Dead.

Two more Musketeers came around the corner and d'Artagnan dispatched George to find Aramis and then send Henri after Athos, wishing it could be him but knowing Athos would want him to stay with Porthos. D'Artagnan didn't want to move Porthos until Aramis or a medic checked him out for fear of doing more damage. Though he believed in God, d'Artagnan didn't often pray; that was Aramis' job. However, as he knelt there in the snow, he began to pray fervently for Porthos to not be seriously injured, for Athos to be safe as he hunted down the assassins and for Aramis to be circumspect with the Queen and to come quickly to assess their brother. D'Artagnan freely admitted he was scared.

Aramis carried the Queen to her bedchamber where he tenderly laid her down. Immediately, he was shoved aside by one of the palace physicians, the King, and the Queen's handmaidens. Suddenly he went from being her savior to being relegated to the back of the room and he didn't like it. As he started to make his way back to the injured Queen's side, he felt a hand clamp down on his elbow, halting his progress.

"Your work is done here, Aramis," Captain Treville spoke quietly in his ear. "Go back outside. Help with the wounded there."

Aramis turned his brown eyes on his leader in disbelief. "But the Queen is injured…"

"And being attended by her physicians," Treville interjected. "Go outside and help with the wounded. Borrow a wagon if necessary to transport any of our injured men back to the garrison. The physicians here have their hands full."

Aramis took one last look at the love of his life, then nodded, turned and left the royal chambers.

Athos pounded over the snow-covered ground, left hand stabilizing his sword, as he followed the tracks of the assassins. The two men had about a three-minute head start so Athos was pushing his body to move as fast as it could to narrow that gap. The footsteps led into a small grove of trees on the far side of the garden, where Athos saw two horses, tied to trees. A quick scan of the ground showed there had been other horses and a neat trail of hoof prints indicating the direction they went.

The Musketeer ripped the reins of one of the remaining beasts free from the tree and he quickly mounted. He swiftly debated his option. He could follow the trail of hoof marks, though he'd continue to be behind them. Or he could gamble that their intentions were to flee the city, in which case they would be headed for the nearest gate. As a Musketeer, he was very familiar with the ways to the gates and he knew of a path that would get him there quicker and maybe ahead of his quarry. However, if they weren't headed in that direction he would lose them. His dilemma was solved when Henri came running up the path.

"Henri. Take that horse. Follow the trail. I think they are heading for the gate. I'm going to take a shortcut. Try to head them off." Having issued his commands, Athos spun the horse around and took off at a gallop.

As Aramis was heading back towards the pavilions, George came running out hailing him. "Aramis. Porthos has been hurt!"

Instinctively clutching his crucifix, he demanded, "Show me!"

George took off at a run with Aramis hot on his heels. As they came around the building to where d'Artagnan knelt in the snow. The Gascon looked up with relief when he heard the footsteps and saw Aramis.

"What happened?" Aramis inquired as he dropped on his knees next to the prone body.

"He fell. From the rope. Knocked off by the assassins."

"How far?" Aramis questioned as he loosened Porthos' clothing to get a better look at him.

"Two stories. It happened fast. Athos threw his knife at the assailant on the roof who was about to cut the rope. Damn if Athos didn't hit him, but when the guy fell, he knocked his partner and Porthos off the rope too."

A small portion of Aramis' brain filed that information away, because Athos was going to blame himself for his brother's fall. Methodically, the medic was running his hands over Porthos, trying to determine if there were any broken bones. "Where is Athos?" he questioned without raising his eyes from the task at hand.

The marksman could hear the frustration in d'Artagnan's tone without even looking at the man's face. "Took off. After two of the assassins."

"Alone?" Aramis tried to keep his voice non-judgmental, knowing the young man was struggling with the fact he had let Athos chase after two armed men without backup.

"Sent Henri after him."

Aramis rose to his feet, his cursory examination done. He walked over and patted his friend on the arm. "You did right by staying with Porthos. I don't think any limbs are broken. But I'm concerned about internal injuries and his back. We need to find a flat board to put him on to transport him back to the garrison."

"Garrison?"

Aramis nodded his head. "Yes. We can care for him better there. The doctors here are overwhelmed between the King and Queen and the other injured nobles."

D'Artagnan said, "Stay here with him. I'll go find a board and a wagon."

As it turned out, three other Musketeers required medical attention, all courtesy of the exploding kettle drums. George rounded up a wagon while d'Artagnan took Phillippe and a board back to where Porthos lay. Using rope, they secured him to the flat piece of wood, then carried him over to wait for the wagon.

Treville came outside to see how his men were and received an update from Aramis, who had by now visited each of the injured Musketeers. The Captain lingered for a minute next to Porthos, a gloved hand brushing the man's forehead.

"The King and Queen and baby are fine. Shook up as you can imagine, but resting comfortably. Does anyone know what happened here yet?" Treville asked letting his eyes wander over the destroyed drums and pavilions.

D'Artagnan, who'd been poking about the drums while Aramis had examined the injured Musketeers and got them ready for transport spoke up. "There was gunpowder in the drums. The shots fired from the roof provided the spark to set off the heated gunpowder."

The conductor, who had been spared any major injuries, unlike the members of his orchestra, was offering comfort to those who were waiting to be ferried into the palace for treatment. He overheard d'Artagnan's comment and came hurrying over. "Gunpowder in my drums! Preposterous."

D'Artagnan, Aramis and the Captain moved over by one of the exploded drums and looked at the mangled metal. The Captain ran a finger over the copper and picked up black powder residue. Aramis took his main gauche and slashed the skin on the top of one of the few drums that hadn't exploded. Inside the copper vessel was a large portion of gunpowder. The maestro nearly fainted when saw what was inside.

"Who would do something like this?" he cried out in horror.

"You and all of your men will be questioned," Treville told him as he motioned some of the other Musketeers to come over. "See to it the injured are cared for and that the rest are placed in a secure location for questioning."

"But Captain. I assure you my musicians had nothing to do with this," the man pleaded. "Who could do something like this to their own? Dead. All my drummers. And half my musicians hurt."

The Captain didn't offer any platitudes, but simply said, "We will get to the bottom of this."

By now, the wagon had arrived and the injured Musketeers were carefully loaded in the back.

"I need to stay here. Aramis, see to the injured upon return to the garrison. D'Artagnan, send men back to help clean up and guard all the musicians until they can be questioned. Oversee the…" Treville paused a moment as a thought hit him. Had he been that distracted? "Where is Athos?"

"Chasing after two of the assassins," d'Artagnan replied. "I stayed with Porthos and he followed their tracks in the snow. I sent Henri after Athos as soon as he showed up."

The Captain could hear the recrimination in the Gascon's voice as he explained. "You did absolutely right, d"Artagnan, staying with Porthos. Athos can take care of himself and I'm sure Henri will catch up to him. Now get going." Treville was worried about Athos, but he had to focus on the correct priorities, the King and Queen.

D'Artagnan and Aramis went to the stables and got their mounts, along with Athos' and Porthos' and followed the wagon back to the garrison. Once they arrived, the injured were placed in the infirmary and the local doctor that oversaw the health of the Musketeers was summoned. Serge, upon seeing the exhausted men, made a hearty meal for the able-bodied and a large batch of broth for the injured.

Porthos still had shown no signs of waking and when the doctor stripped him in the warmth of the infirmary for examination, he found some concerning bruising. His advice was keep him warm, and wait.

Athos rode his mount hard to the gate on the east side of Paris. After passing through he rode out into the surrounding fields, turning his mount in circles as he scanned the landscape. There was no sign of the two men anywhere in the nearby area and there was no way they could have made it to the woods in the distance. He must have gotten to the gate before them. As he turned his horse back towards the gate, he heard rapidly approaching hoof beats. Pulling out his musket, he waited.

As the two assassins burst through the gate, they saw Athos aiming a gun at them. Yanking their horses' heads around to move away from the lone Musketeer, they drew their guns. At that moment, Henri, who had made good time, came bursting out the gate. Two shots rang out and a second later, two more. The assassins managed to discharge their firearms first. Given their profession, their aim was good and they hit both of their targets. Athos and Henri also fired, a few seconds later, delayed by their horses, which were not battle-trained and had shied when they heard the first set of shots.

Athos felt the hot metal tearing through his side as he watched his shot rip into the thigh of one of the riders. Henri felt a burning sensation in the middle of his chest and seconds later tumbled to the ground. His shot at the assassins went wide.

"Henri!" Athos yelled as he urged his unruly horse towards the fallen man. How much he missed Roger at times like these.

The assassins turned and started galloping for the woods; the bullet Athos had put in the leg of one not slowing them down at all.

Athos drew up next to Henri and was making to dismount when Henri said, "Don't, Athos. Go get those bastards." With that, Henri's eyes went blank and his face slack.

"Damn," Athos muttered as he gazed upon the body of his dead brother-in-arms. More determined than ever, he spun his mount and took off after the fleeing men. He could feel the gunshot wound in his side bleeding down his leg, but based on where it hurt, he thought it might have simply plowed through the flesh above his hip. A clean shot and one that hopefully wouldn't prevent from catching these murderers.

The horse race could only go on for so long before the animals wore out. At some point this was going to become a showdown and when it did Athos knew he was at a serious disadvantage. Injured, with only one pistol, still unloaded, no main gauche and two opponents. He was racking his brain for an advantage of any sort.

Twenty minutes later, the horses were just about done in, the gallop slowed back to a ragged canter on the verge of being a trot. Athos could catch glimpses of the assassins several hundred yards ahead of him and would have loved to try to overtake them, but his horse had nothing left to give. The trail forked ahead, and he suddenly knew he might now have an advantage. The bridge a mile up this path had washed out recently making the ravine it went over impassable. It had only happened a week ago; one of the Musketeers had reported it but he doubted the general populace knew and it was highly unlikely these two would. They would be forced to turn around and come back to the fork, and then take the other road. There was a nice place for an ambush, a bank high enough to offer an advantage, on the road with the missing bridge.

Slowly, Athos reined in his horse, making it look like the exhausted animal simply couldn't go any further. When he could no longer glimpse the assassins ahead of him, Athos detoured off into the woods and started up the slope. The horse gave it a try, but was finding the ground too steep, so Athos dismounted and led the tired animal out of sight before tying him to a tree.

His own body was no happier than the horse's, his side protesting every step, but at least he was still alive, unlike poor Henri and... an image of Porthos lying deathly still in the snow flashed through his mind. Was he still alive? A wave of despair tugged at him, trying to drag him out into a sea of sorrow. Before it could tow his thoughts too far astray, he metaphorically dug his feet in the sand and stopped. How many times had he lectured d'Artagnan, head over heart. He needed to heed his own advice. He pushed the distracting thoughts aside.

Quickly, he moved up the slope, then towards the road, though it wasn't an easy trek given the angle of the ground. The snow and unseen patches of ice brought him down more than once. Finding a good vantage point overlooking the road, he moved back from the edge and reloaded his pistol. One shot. Two men, and no time to reload.

Once the gun was loaded, he drew his sword then moved back to the edge and lowered himself to the ground on his belly. His side screamed at him for the foolish position he was in but he had no choice, he couldn't risk being seen. His body was sweating and shivering as he lay in the snow, watching and listening for any signs of his foe. The plan running through his mind wasn't elegant or pretty but he had to make it work, for the King, for the Queen, for Henri . . . and for his brother; the swordsman refused to let these assassins get away.

In the distance, the sounds of two, slowly plodding horses could be heard coming down the path. Their riders had their guns drawn and ready because they expected at any moment to come face to face with the Musketeer who'd been chasing them. However, they weren't thinking of an ambush from above.

Athos pushed up on his elbows, sighted down his barrel, held his breath and pulled the trigger. His shot rang true as the assassin on the left toppled from his horse and plunged to the ground. The remaining man brought his gun to bear on Athos, clipping him on the left bicep. But it didn't stop Athos from throwing his rapier down the small embankment before launching himself from the top at the man on the horse, catching him by surprise and knocking both of them to the ground.

The horses, as tired as they were, spooked and ran off as the two men wrestled on the ground. Athos scrambled away the first chance he got to grab his rapier. Once he had his familiar blade in his hand, he knew his enemy was finished. It wasn't a long sword fight as the assassin apparently was more skilled with a pistol than a blade. In a matter of minutes the battle was over and the assassin lay on the ground with Athos' sword pressing into his chest.

"Who hired you?" Athos menacingly growled as he pressed the tip harder against the man's chest.

In a surprise move, the assassin bolted up right, impaling himself on Athos' sword and essentially causing his own death. Athos swore again as the light in the man's eyes went out. Shakily, Athos cleaned his sword and stood, panting in the fading afternoon light. He was feeling light-headed and feverish, despite the bitter cold.

A quick search of the bodies reveled a letter, with a promise of payment from Gaston, Louis' brother. Tucking it into his doublet pocket, Athos dragged the bodies to the side of the road for retrieval later. After reloading his own pistol, he set about hiking back to where he left his horse. It was an unpleasant surprise to arrive there and find the animal, which had barely been able to keep its head up, missing.

Making his way back to the road, he looked for signs of the other two horses, but they were gone too. With a sigh, he started walking back towards Paris in the deepening twilight and the light snow that had started up again. It was very quiet in the woods with the coming of nightfall and the snow and Athos at times wondered if he were walking in his dreams. It was going to take him hours to get back to Paris, but the thought of Porthos lying there motionless drove him to keep placing one foot after the other.

Back in the garrison, d'Artagnan had arranged for Musketeers to go to the Palace to oversee the musician-prisoners until which time as their innocence could be proven. Aramis was in the infirmary doing follow up care after the doctor's departure. Porthos' injuries were the gravest of the lot, and Aramis had arranged for him to be in a quiet corner, near the hearth to ward off the chill. The streetfighter had still shown no signs of waking or moving. When all his duties were done for the time being, Aramis pulled up a chair next to Porthos' bed to pray and wait.

D'Artagnan and Serge came in bearing food for the wounded. Aramis found himself being dragged off by the Gascon to a table to eat, even though he didn't feel the least like it.

"One brother, lying there unconscious, and I have no idea how bad off he is, and the other brother is out there, somewhere, chasing two assassins," Aramis moaned as he pushed his spoon through the stew but didn't lift it to his lips. "At least you sent Henri with him."

D'Artagnan's spoon, which was on its way to his mouth, faltered, before he shoved it between his lips.

Aramis' eyes narrowed as he studied his brother, who was masticating the hell out of the piece of meat in his mouth. Serge didn't always get the best cuts of meat, but d'Artagnan looked like he was trying to chew and swallow an old boot. "What aren't you telling me," the marksman demanded, causing his brother to scowl and chew even harder.

"Spit it out, and by that I mean what you are hiding, not that piece of meat you are pulverizing."

D'Artagnan placed his spoon on the table and ran hand over the side of his face. "They found Henri. Outside the east gate. Dead."

Aramis paled at the implication. "And Athos."

"No sign of him." In frustration, the Gascon slammed his fist into the table. "And until Treville comes back we can't go searching."

"Why?" Aramis demanded as he rose from the chair. "Let's go. Now."

D'Artagnan, as much as he wanted to go, knew they couldn't, not yet. "Aramis. Sit," he pleaded. "Don't make this any harder than it already is. You have to stay here and oversee the wounded and Porthos. Athos would never forgive you if you left Porthos alone to go look for him."

Aramis knew what the Gascon said was true.

"And besides Serge and the stable lads, you and I are the only ones here until more return from the Palace. Like it or not, Athos is on his own."

"From twelve drummers to this," Aramis waved a tired hand around the infirmary. "How does that happen?"

Athos wondered if he was coming to the edge of the forest soon. A few hundred feet later he had his answer as the fields outside of Paris came into view. The weary and slightly disorientated Musketeer stopped for a moment and considered how tranquil everything appeared under the mantle of fresh snow. In fact, it was so peaceful, he wanted simply to lie down and go to sleep. Then the image of Porthos brushed his mind, merging with that of Thomas, lying dead on the floor of the parlor, and it shocked him to his senses. He couldn't stop now, not until he knew if he had killed another one of his brothers.

Forcing his feet to move again, he trudged into the falling snow covering the fields. His body couldn't decide if it was hot or cold and alternated between periods of sweating and shivering. First, he felt hot, as if his very clothes were on fire. Sweat coated his skin and ran down his back. Then a fierce gust of wind blew across the open plain. He started shivering as the icy breeze found its way inside the crevices of his coat making his sweat feel like it was freezing to his skin. However, like a tired mule plowing a field by rote, the Musketeer kept his head bowed and plodded onward.

An indeterminate amount of time later, he raised his head and saw he was at the east gate of Paris. As he passed through the opening, he couldn't help but think of Henri, who had died here. The guards, who recognized his pauldron, let him pass without question. It spoke to how numb his brain was that he didn't think to ask for their help or to borrow a horse, but just kept trudging through the streets of Paris.

As he neared home, irrational fear gripped his mind and he began to attempt to run through the streets to the garrison. It was a rough gait at best, but was somewhat faster than a walk. As the first rays of dawn struck the garrison's vaulted gate, the swordsman stumbled past the guards heading for the infirmary. He flung open the door and stood, his fever bright, delusional eyes searching the room. Finally, he saw his three brothers in the far corner, one in the bed and two in chairs nearby. It was like his body forgot what it was supposed to do as he stood there numbly.

The sound of the door being flung open woke Aramis and d'Artagnan and they quickly fixed their eyes on the door even as they reached for their weapons. Some more Musketeers had returned freeing the Gascon to come sit with this brothers.

"Athos!" they echoed in unison when their eyes lit on the ragged man standing in the doorway. Both Musketeers quickly stood and hurried to his side.

"Athos?" Aramis repeated as he placed a careful hand on his ill brother's arm. The swordsman suddenly snapped, grabbed Aramis' shirt collar with his right hand and pulled the man within inches of his face.

"Is he dead?"

Athos kept twisting the shirt tighter around Aramis' neck in his delusional state, not recognizing he was choking the man. D'Artagnan grabbed Athos by his biceps and pried him off the marksman. Athos let out a strangled cry as d'Artagnan's strong hands pressed on the bullet wound in his left arm. The swordsman started to crumble and when the Gascon, trying to help, moved his grip from one of Athos' arms to encircle his waist hitting his other wound, Athos swung a fist at his friend trying to escape the agony. The blow glanced off the side of d'Artagnan's face, stunning him with its unexpectedness, and he released the swordsman who crumbled to his knees on the floor.

Aramis, when he was released, stumbled back against a chair, which he grabbed for support to steady himself. D'Artagnan backed off a few steps, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he watched Athos fall to his knees. With his head bowed, a foot from the floor he croaked, "Porthos?" Raising his head slowly, his pleading, grief-filled eyes scanned the room once more.

Aramis gently reached out to touch Athos' cheek to get him to focus. "Athos. He's alive."

The green eyes shifted to peer at him, seeking the validity of the words.

"Let me show you," the marksman said, though he made no sudden moves or offered to help the man to his feet. Athos' mind was not totally rational and the medic treated him like a spooked colt.

Using a nearby chair Athos hauled his frozen body to his feet, then followed Aramis as he crossed the infirmary to the back corner where the streetfighter lay. Standing very still next to the bed, the weary swordsman ran his eyes up and down the blanketed figure. "How bad?"

D'Artagnan joined them and the three Musketeers stared at the inert form, watching the strong man's chest rhythmically rise and fall. "He hasn't awoken since he was brought here. But Athos, these things can take time. You know that."

Aramis could see Athos shivering, and he wanted to get the Musketeer to shed his wet garments. "Why don't you come over by the fire and warm up for a few minutes while D'Artagnan fetches some dry clothes from your room."

"No." The refusal was delivered in a flat tone, though it clearly indicated there was no room for discussion.

Aramis grimaced. He knew what Athos was like when he got in this mood and little could persuade him from his path. They either had to play his way, go away, or do something drastic. The marksman moved the chair he'd been sitting in closer to the head of the bed. "Athos, perhaps you'd like to sit here. With Porthos for a while."

Nodding mutely, the swordsman dropped into the chair, then reached forward and ran his hand over his unconscious brother's hair. "He's warm."

"Not overly so. He has no fever. It is you who is cold, my friend, therefore he seems hot. Why don't you take off your weapons belt so you can sit more comfortably in that chair?" Aramis lightly suggested and he was rewarded when the swordsman handed all his weaponry over to d'Artagnan. "There, now isn't that better?"

Seeming not to hear him, Athos moved his chair closer and gently uncovered Porthos' hand and cupped it in his own trembling one. "He's cold?" Athos declared as he looked plaintively up at the medic. "Can't you do something for him."

Knowing he wasn't getting through to the only partially cognizant Comte, Aramis played the game by Athos' rules. "How about we do this. I'll take these blankets from the cot here and wrap one around you and one around him, keep you both warm. Wouldn't want your cold hands making him cold now would we."

Athos remained pliable as Aramis stripped the nearby cot of its blankets and then bundled them around the two Musketeers, though mostly around Athos as Porthos was fine. When he was done, he motioned for d'Artagnan to follow him to the other side of the infirmary, as Athos sat there quietly, staring at his brother.

"What's the matter with him?" d'Artagnan asked once they were out of earshot. "Shouldn't we call a doctor?"

"In this state, Athos won't let anyone examine him, not even me. He has a fever that much I can tell. And his grasp on reality is weak. His mind and body are protecting themselves as best they know how. We need to give him some time, and wait for him to fall asleep or pass out." The look d'Artagnan gave Aramis was dubious, but he went along with the premise as Aramis was the medic of the group.

The morning passed quietly, Athos didn't fall asleep, pass out, or move from his post at Porthos' side. When his fever rose, he shucked off the blankets that Aramis had wrapped around him. The medic tried to get him to drink some broth, but the swordsman ignored him.

As Treville had yet to return from the Palace, d'Artagnan left the infirmary to see about the running of the garrison. Musketeers kept returning to sleep and fresh ones taking their place at the Palace leading the streetfighter to believe Treville was still at the Palace and worried about the safety of the Royal family.

By mid-morning, all the Musketeers in the infirmary, other than Porthos, were given the option to relocate back to their own quarters to finish their recuperations, and everyone gladly moved. Athos, in a state of semi-consciousness, sat in the chair next to Porthos, but attempts to move him to a bed seemed to rouse him enough to fight the idea, so in the chair he remained.

That afternoon, when the doctor came to examine Porthos, things got very bad. Aramis and d'Artagnan had to physically drag the delusional Athos away from the bed so the doctor could examine the patient. Even in his ever-weakening state, Athos fought their efforts to restrain him.

When the physician was done, he stood up and walked over to where Aramis and d'Artagnan were detaining Athos. The physician eyed the disheveled Athos rather as if he were a rapid dog, physically foaming at the mouth. "He remains unconscious. I know not for how much longer. That remains in God's hand. I have done all I can."

The marksman could feel the anger building in Athos and he tightened his hold on the man's arm, glad they had taken all his weapons away earlier. The doctor took a step away from the trio as if he sensed the danger he was in. "I'll check round tomorrow. Keep doing what you are doing."

"Doing!" the delusional Athos screamed. "Doing! We are doing nothing! That brave Musketeer lies there dying and we are doing nothing!"

Athos broke free of Aramis' and d'Artagnan's hold and took a menacing step towards the doctor who was hastily retreating towards the door. The doctor backed right into Treville, who had just gotten back to the garrison, heard the yelling and stepped into the doorway of the infirmary to investigate. Unware that the Captain was behind him, the doctor backed into him and let out a startled squeal.

"What is going on here?" the Captain's voice boomed across the space as he saw a wild looking Athos who appeared about to accost the physician.

"Captain," Athos said as he stood panting in front of the man as if he'd just run a marathon. "That so-called doctor is doing nothing for Porthos. He is letting him simply die."

The Captain stared over at Aramis looking for a coherent explanation but before he could offer one, Athos began ranting again.

"God! They are waiting for God to do something. God! God will kill him like he did Thomas. Then he'll take all of you and you and you," he pointed fingers at his brothers, "and leave me to suffer." The upset musketeer rounded on the Captain again. "We need to do something. Now!"

Aramis stepped forward and soothingly said, "You are right, Athos. We must do something. The Captain, d'Artagnan, the doctor and I will discuss what to do while you go sit in the chair by Porthos." When it appeared Athos was going to object, he added, "in case he wakes up. Don't want him to be alone or afraid."

Athos' mind, which had long ago snapped from the exhaustion, cold and blood loss was incapable of a rationale thought and he struggled, trying to decide if this was some sort of new trick.

Aramis, knowing his brother was not in his right mind, offered a quick prayer to God to forgive him for the lie he was about to tell. "Athos, did you see that?" Aramis said with excitement as he glanced towards the bed where Porthos lay. "There it is again. He moved his arm ever so slightly. Go. Sit by him. Hold his hand."

Aramis wanted to weep for the lie he was telling his brother, for there had been no twitch. The hope that flashed through those weary green eyes nearly broke his heart in two. The marksman watched as Athos stumbled his way back to Porthos' bedside, collapsed in the chair, then grabbed the streetfighter's hand and held it between his own two.

By the time Aramis moved over by the fireplace, Treville had been brought up to speed on the health of Porthos. "And what's wrong with Athos?" he demanded, distressed to see his Lieutenant so unhinged.

All eyes turned to Aramis who rubbed a hand over his face. "He's delusional. From exhaustion. From the cold. He has a fever but he won't let me examine him. I have no idea if he's hurt further."

"What do you suggest?" the Captain asked the group.

"Knock him out. Give his body and mind a chance to rest. I have a tincture that will work and cause no lasting harm," the doctor declared. "I made it up fresh this morning for another patient and I have some left in my bag still."

The three Musketeers exchanged glances, not liking the idea but seeing no alternative, so when the doctor went to his bag and removed the vial, Aramis accepted it.

After he had gone, Treville looked over at Athos, sitting next to the bed, clutching Porthos' hand. "You said he feels responsible. Why?"

"It was his knife throw that killed the assassin that fell and knocked Porthos off the rope. An accident, but you know Athos," d'Artagnan said sadly.

"Did he say, when he returned, what happened to the other two assassins he was chasing?"

"No Captain. He wasn't real rational when he burst in here. Just looking for Porthos and nothing else seemed to be getting through to him," d'Artagnan declared as he looked over to Aramis for conformation.

Treville stared at Athos. "There was no truth in the fact you saw Porthos move?"

Clearly, the marksman was uncomfortable with the lie he had told. "None. But I needed something…"

Laying a sympathetic hand on Aramis' shoulder, the Captain kindly said, "You did what you had to do."

"And now," Aramis continued bitterly, "I'm going to render him unconscious."

"For his own good, Aramis," d'Artagnan chimed in. "I don't like it either, but he can't go on like this. He's hurting himself. If something were to happen to Athos while Porthos is recovering, none of us would survive that."

The Captain squared his shoulders and ordered Aramis to drug Athos, thinking it might be better coming as a command from him, maybe help ease Aramis' guilt. "But first I want to see if I can get him to tell me the fate of the assassins. After questioning the surviving musicians, I don't think they were involved. I think someone tampered with the drums after they were set up and before I sent you to guard them. The conductor said they sounded a little odd."

Moving between the other empty beds, the Captain made his way to the only occupied one where Porthos lay with Athos sitting by his side clutching his hand. The conscious Musketeer didn't even glance up at his approach.

"Athos," Captain Treville said in his best commander's voice. "What happened to the two assassins you were chasing?"

Though he didn't raise his eyes or his head to glance at his Captain, he did reply. "Dead. I killed them on road where the bridge is out. I walked back to the garrison from there. Someone should go collect the bodies."

"Did they tell you who was behind this operation?"

"They're dead," Athos repeated remotely.

The Captain reached over and firmly grasped Athos' chin and made the Musketeer turn his head and look at him. Still holding his chin, he repeated, "Did you find out who they were working for?" Treville couldn't begin to fathom the emotions floating through the green eyes staring at him. He only knew this man was not the stoic Athos he knew.

Athos stared at the Captain so long, he was about to give up on getting a reply, when finally, the man said, "Letter. My pocket."

Treville found the letter, scanned it and frowned. Moving back over to where Aramis and d'Artagnan still stood by the fireplace, Treville ran a tired hand through his hair. "The King's brother, Gaston, is behind this it seems. The King won't be pleased."

"He's alive. That should please him. I hope that puts an end to these stupid quests," d'Artagnan said with distain.

"Athos?" Aramis tentatively asked to see if his Captain had changed his mind.

"For the sake of that man's sanity, you have to knock him out and let him rest. That," he glanced over at the hunched figure, "is not Athos."

It was surprising easy to pour the mixture into a glass of wine that Athos eagerly accepted. It didn't take long for the drug to work as Athos' limbs went slack and he slumped onto the bed. Quickly, they lifted him off Porthos and placed him on a nearby cot where Aramis quickly stripped him and found the gunshot wounds on the side and the arm, as well as assorted bruises.

Both wounds appeared to have bled heavily at some point and showed signs of infection. While he lay unconscious, they cleaned him up, treated his wounds and dressed him in dry, warm clothes. Then they left him to sleep, that being the best medicine for him. Aramis, after he was done, lay down for a short nap, but before he did, he prayed to his God, with all his heart to prove Athos wrong in his assumptions and heal Porthos.

When Athos woke from his enforced rest, his fever was lower, but he still was exhausted and in pain. As much as he scowled at everyone for knocking him out, when he heard the stories of his behavior, the swordsman realized it had been for the best.

Once he got his bearings, he was right back at Porthos' side. He was greeted with the good news that the streetfighter had awoken, and appeared to be fine, but tired. He had full movement of his arms and legs and other than bruises, suffered no lasting damage from the fall.

The King, after the twelve-drummer debacle, ended his true love gifts and instead simply showered the Queen with his undying devotion by smothering her with his presence, day and night. The Queen was so fed-up tripping over him that she called Treville in private and begged him to take the King on outings, quests, anything to get him out from under foot. So in a concentrated effort between Captain Treville and his Musketeers, and the Cardinal, they found or manufactured tasks that simply had to have the King's attention to give her Majesty some respite.

The last night before Porthos and Athos were to return to full duty status, the Inseparables met in Aramis' large room for dinner from the quartet's favorite tavern and wine from Athos' good stock. After a good meal, they lounged with glasses of mulled wine and chatted idly.

"Birds, baubles, bombs. Exciting times," Aramis declared as he swirled his glass of wine to stir the fragrant spices.

Porthos shook his head. "I could do with a bit less excitement."

"Just think of all the knowledge you gained on these quests. Like knights of old." Aramis leaned his head back and stretched his legs. "We learned that Athos has a secret affection for poodles…"

Athos rolled his eyes and sipped his spiced wine.

"…and d'Artagnan and Porthos aren't good bird catchers and simply can't be trusted on their own in Serge's kitchen."

"It was his fault not mine," Porthos defended his honor.

"D'Artagnan did redeem himself by demonstrating he is a true farmer and finding the only five toed French hens in Paris…"

The Gascon tilted his head in acknowledgment.

"…while Athos, the best swordsman in all of France disgracefully cut his own finger peeling carrots."

"Knife wasn't sharp. A good knife should always be kept well honed," Athos muttered under this breath.

"Yeah, and you would have cut your whole finger off," Porthos couldn't resist teasing.

"And we learned birds could talk on our quests…"

"And get us hung," the Gascon interjected.

"…and that d'Artagnan has an affinity for women's jewelry…"

Two smirks and a scowl were offered up to that comment.

"Perhaps the King needed to come on these quests to learn the difference between a goose and a swan." Aramis paused a moment thinking of the tenth quest, then added, "Scratch that. No Kings on quests."

"Then my personal favorite revelations: d'Artagnan looks marvelous in a dress, Porthos has a second career as a dancer, and after being around those ten-toady leaping Lords it's amazing Athos isn't more screwed up than he is. Kudos to you Athos for escaping your caste structure only partially deranged."

Athos eyes narrowed as he glanced over at Aramis, pretty sure he'd just been complimented and insulted simultaneously.

"And last, but not least, we learned Athos doesn't like bagpipes, and if we ever run short of bombs on the battlefield, we can commandeer kettle drums. All in all these quests have been very enlightening."

"I could do without any more enlightenment," Porthos stated as he raised his glass high to make a toast. "May we remain unenlightened Musketeers for the rest of our lives."


End file.
